Phoenix Fire, or Hermione Granger and the EW
by grangerous
Summary: The battle against Voldemort is over, yet little has returned to normal. Once again, Severus Snape finds himself  reluctantly  cast as the protector of the wizarding world, with Hermione Granger his tireless ally. Part III of the Phoenix Trilogy.
1. Prologue

_Phoenix Fire (or, Hermione Granger and the Elder Wand)_, Prologue.

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters that populate this story are the property of the incomparably talented and infinitely generous J.K. Rowling. I am thankful to Ms. Rowling for her stories, and for her admirable open mindedness on the subject of fanfiction.

I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

I am also deeply, deeply grateful to Ariadne, who agreed to beta this despite having a very full schedule. All the mistakes that remain are entirely my own.

**WARNING: This story is the third in my Phoenix Trilogy. I STRONGLY suggest that you read the other two stories before starting this one: Book one, _Phoenix Song (or, Hermione Granger and the H-B P)_; Book two, _Phoenix Tears (or, Hermione Granger and the DH)_.**

**Please note also that this story contains (at various points) references to, discussion and/or descriptions of violent acts and mature themes, including war, death, physical violence, emotional trauma, sexual assault, rape, abortion, and consensual sex between adults. There are some nice things, too, I promise!**

One final author's note before I begin: with the exception of the many (justified) complaints about the long interim between the second and third parts of this story, the most frequent critique my writing has engendered regards the number of openly gay characters. This is not a complaint that I feel any sympathy for; after all, I'm gay myself. Besides, every character I cast as gay was graced with highly "gay" potential in the descriptions and characteristics that JKR herself provided for them. In this installment of the story, as the younger members of the cast grow up, some of them are going to turn out gay as well. Just deal. In fact, I would recommend revelling in it-it's not that I've made a higher percentage of characters gay than would happen in real life, it's just that I tend to give them more airtime than you might be exposed to in your version of real life. I give you my solemn promise that neither Severus nor Hermione will turn out to be the slightest bit gay, and as to the rest, you'll just have to hold onto your hats and come along for the ride. As Manning Clark once said about his history of Australia, if you don't like it, write your own!

And now, with no further ado, let me present: _Phoenix Fire, (or, Hermione Granger and the Elder Wand)_.

* * *

><p>The woman spat into the sink, rinsed her toothbrush and placed it back into the rack. With a fleeting glance at the mirror, she ran a hand through her spiky hair and left the bathroom for the bedroom.<p>

Her lover was tucked up in bed, a heavy book balanced on her lap, wire-rimmed reading glasses propped on the end of her nose, and her grey curls twisted up out-of-sight underneath a nightcap that was decorated with pink cabbage roses.

"Poppy, sweetheart, are you done with the light? Or do you want to read longer?"

Poppy sighed and closed the book with an audible thud. "I'm done," she acknowledged, folding her glasses as she spoke.

Hooch held out her hand for the book, and placed it and Poppy's glasses on the bedside table.

The cover was inscribed in large gold letters: _Sympathetic Magic_.

"You still thinking about Severus, then?" asked Hooch as she climbed up onto the bed and under the covers.

"Yes." Poppy waited for Hooch to hold out one arm, and then snuggled up into the crook of the other woman's arm, pillowing her head on Hooch's shoulder. "Quite honestly, I've never seen anything like that before."

"_Nox_."

"His neck—and the scar on the Granger girl's chest—both completely and flawlessly healed. I only wish I knew how they did it!"

Hooch hummed gently in response. She slid one finger up under the edge of Poppy's bonnet and teased a single curl free; she wound it gently round her finger. "You could heal a lot of people with a skill like that, sweetheart."

"Maybe, maybe not."

"Are you saying 'maybe' because you doubt your abilities, Poppy, or because you think that particular piece of magic is unrepeatable?"

"Both?"

Hooch turned her head and pressed a kiss to the other woman's forehead. "Don't doubt yourself. You're one of the best, and you know that as well as I do. You healed everyone you possibly could have after that battle."

"It's just . . ." Poppy trailed off, only to suddenly poke her lover sharply in the ribs.

"Oy! What was that for?"

"What I'm going to say next must go no further: this is purely speculation."

"If you want to push those strong fingers into me, sweetheart, I can think of a better location."

"Hush, you! Don't be crude!" There was a smile in Poppy's voice despite the reproof, and she dug her finger back into Hooch's ribs.

Hooch laughed. "Go on, then. What's this top-secret, highly-speculative theory of yours?"

"Don't laugh," warned Poppy. "It's just that . . . it's almost as if the process of healing Severus affected the Granger girl, too; as if they were two parts of the one whole."

The silence that followed her announcement stretched on slightly too long.

"What are you saying, Poppy?" asked Hooch eventually. "That the two of them are destined to be together?"

"NO! I'm not suggesting anything of the kind, and _that_ is exactly why this can't go any further! Just . . . that perhaps that he cares so deeply about her safety, that he couldn't be made whole unless she was."

"Hmm." Hooch rubbed her thumb against the other woman's shoulder. "It's an interesting theory."

"Forget it," replied Poppy suddenly. "Forget I said anything."

Hooch grinned against Poppy's forehead. "Make me," she whispered provocatively.

Poppy took that opportunity to dig her fingers back into her companions ribs, and Hooch chuckled—a rich, chocolaty sound that perfectly matched the darkness of their room.

* * *

><p>NOTE: I know it's short, but the first chapter is imminent! I just have to fix up the (many) issues pointed out by my beloved and highly respected beta.<p>

Also, I'd like to dedicate this prologue (and the fact of its posting) to Baggins18 and WaityKatie, who kicked my ass into gear.

PS peoples, have I told you how motivated reviews make me? (Maybe once or twice, right?) :) Thanks for reading!


	2. Chapter 1: The Order of the Phoenix

_Phoenix Fire (or, Hermione Granger and the Elder Wand)_, Chapter one: The Order of the Phoenix.

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters that populate this story are the property of the incomparably talented and infinitely generous J.K. Rowling. I am thankful to Ms. Rowling for her stories, and for her admirable open mindedness on the subject of fanfiction.

I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

Ariadne's comments on this chapter have improved it immeasurably. I am SO THRILLED to have her reading this and pointing out the most grievous of my errors.

* * *

><p>Hermione sat crushed against Ron, with the <em>Daily<em>_ Prophet_ crumpled in her hand. Snape's words had hit home: how naive they had been to imagine their happily ever after had arrived! She risked a glance at Harry. He was pale, and his fists trembled slightly where he held them clutched, ineffectually, on his lap.

As terrible as she felt, he must feel worse. Ever since his arrival in the wizarding world Harry had lived under the ominous shadow of the threat of Voldemort; every day, his life had hung in the balance. _And__ now__.__.__._ He didn't deserve this.

Amazingly, though, he managed not to shoot the messenger. In fact, his newfound respect for Snape—as demonstrated by the fervour with which he'd worked to clear his name—had held. Hermione tried to imagine the old Harry asking Snape for advice and failed. But the new Harry—the one who had seen Snape's memories, who saw in him his mother's oldest friend—had. And the very fact that Harry had asked for advice seemed to mollify Snape, who had told them to sit and now stared at Harry appraisingly.

"The first thing to do," said Snape, "is to collect the wand and place it somewhere safe. We also have to work out how to keep you safe, Potter. It may require help from the Aurors, or you may have to reconstitute the Order of the Phoenix."

Barely had the last words left his lips when a bright flash of light and a sharp crack sounded in the room. Hermione drew the wand she was currently carrying—that of an unknown Death Eater—instantly. When the flash faded, she realised that she, Harry, Ron and Snape were all pointing their weapons at Fawkes, who floated calmly across the room, dwarfing the cramped sitting room at Spinner's End with the width of his wingspan.

Relief rushed through her on the heels of adrenaline. Harry had told her Fawkes was back, but seeing him unleashed far stronger emotions than the description alone.

Fawkes banked slightly, furling the tips of his wings, he swooped down over Snape's lap and let something fall before turning sharply in the constrained space. With a flutter of wings he came to land on the ancient TV antenna, which bent slightly under his weight. Clucking to himself, Fawkes folded his wings and set about tidying his chest feathers.

Closing her own mouth with an audible snap, Hermione turned her eyes back towards Snape.

He was staring down at the object Fawkes had delivered, in obvious shock. Slowly, he raised his eyes towards Harry.

"I believe this is yours, Potter," he sneered unexpectedly, all of the malice of their long relationship back in his voice once again. He held out the narrow strip of wood so that everyone could see what it was.

"Strewth," swore Ron softly. "The Elder Wand."

"I don't want it!" There was an edge of desperation in Harry's voice, and he turned away from Snape towards Ron and Hermione. "I don't want it!" he repeated at a slightly higher pitch.

"It's alright, mate," offered Ron.

Hermione drew in a shaky breath. "This doesn't change the situation, Harry. It just means we know the wand is safe for now, and that we don't have to go and fetch it ourselves."

He nodded, his eyes still wide with anxiety.

"The next step," continued Hermione, her mind racing to consider the possibilities, "is to decide what to do. To be honest, it's probably better for you not to have the wand on you."

"You keep it," said Harry suddenly, directing his words at Snape.

Hermione stared at him in amazement.

"Erm, mate . . ." Ron trailed off awkwardly, but his tone of voice was enough that Hermione recognised her own discomfort at Harry's thoughtless demand. She fumbled for Ron's hand and squeezed it gratefully.

"For now," snarled Snape, cutting across anything further Ron might have said, "I suggest we put it in the secret compartment behind Albus' portrait." At his words, all three of his interlocutors relaxed slightly, and Harry nodded energetically. "You, Potter," continued Snape, "need to decide who you will ask for help: the Ministry, or the Order?"

Harry swallowed before answering and shot a look at his friends. "The Order," he replied eventually. "I trust Kingsley, but I don't necessarily trust the rest of the Ministry. Your dad, excepted, of course," he added hurriedly to Ron.

Hermione knew it for the apology that it was.

"Very well, then," replied Snape, still sounding vitriolic. "I assume that Kingsley, Minerva and Arthur remain in charge of the Order?"

"Yeah, plus my mum," confirmed Ron.

Snape glanced at Ron when he spoke, dropping his eyes disdainfully to the place where Hermione and Ron's hands were joined. He sneered.

Hermione felt suddenly embarrassed by their proximity, acutely aware of Ron's body squashed up against hers in the old, battered armchair. For the first time in a long time, she remembered that Snape was a teacher. He was her teacher. She let go of Ron's hand hurriedly and wiped her suddenly sweaty palm surreptitiously against her jeans.

If anything, Snape's sneer deepened. He placed the Elder Wand carefully on the coffee table and drew his own.

"_Expecto__patronum!_" he cried.

Three bright, silver animals barrelled from his wand and—to the consternation of all present—flapped around the room. Even Fawkes cocked his head to one side to watch their progress.

"B-but," stuttered Harry, "your Patronus is a doe! I _saw_ it!"

"I assure you, Potter, I find myself as surprised as you are."

Snape looked startled—even a little bereft—but Hermione, as her initial surprise faded, found it replaced by a secret bubble of pure delight: a new Patronus for Snape, she decided, was a very good thing.

* * *

><p>"A <em>phoenix<em>, Severus? I do think you could have warned me!" expostulated Minerva even before the pop of her Apparation had faded. "I almost had a heart attack thinking Albus back from the grave!"

Similar observations marked the arrival of Molly and Arthur, and finally, Kingsley, and it was several minutes before Snape could turn the conversation away from his new Patronus and the reappearance of Fawkes, towards the conundrum of the Elder Wand.

In that time, Harry seemed to have realised the enormity of the task he was asking of the Order members—who, like him, had thought victory and rest within their grasp—and he was suitably, almost pitifully, grateful that they agreed to help.

"I think we should destroy it," concluded Harry.

"No easy task," commented Snape. "Dumbledore himself was unable to do so."

"Yes, but Dumbledore didn't really want to destroy it, did he?" Ron looked surprised at himself as the words left his mouth.

"I'm sure you're full of suggestions of how to go about it," sneered Snape. "Do share your methodology."

"Well," replied Ron, swallowing awkwardly, "has anyone ever tried to break it?"

Several seconds of silence greeted his suggestion. Then Harry stood up and lifted the Elder Wand from its place on the table. Raising it in both hands, he brought it down sharply across his knee. Harry winced on impact, but the wand remained unharmed.

"It seems pretty tough," he commented unnecessarily, rubbing at his thigh. "But that was a good idea, mate."

"Once again," commented Snape snidely, "the Gryffindor frontal assault fails."

"Enough, Severus, it was a good idea," snapped McGonagall. "This situation is going to require further research. I suggest we leave the wand in the cavity behind Dumbledore's portrait, as Severus suggested, and convene regular meetings until we've worked it out. As long as the wand is safe and Harry is safe, there is no need to solve the problem today."

McGonagall's suggestion met with unanimous support, though Snape agreed only grudgingly. The question of Harry's safety took further discussion.

"Ron and I have been offered positions with the Aurors office," commented Harry, nodding towards Kingsley. "We've been thinking of accepting."

"Excellent," replied Kingsley, looking pleased. "That covers issues of security for the next few months at least. And in fact, I think the intensive training course will be beneficial for you both in terms of keeping yourself protected."

"Actually," continued Harry resolutely, "that was one of the things we wanted to talk to you about. We'd like to do the intensive course, but then," he hesitated for a second, shooting a look at Hermione, "we'd like leave of absence to return to school and finish our NEWTs. We believe it would be the best solution for us in the long term."

Hermione beamed at both of her best friends and noticed Molly smiling proudly at Ron. McGonagall laughed, a short barking sound that she clamped down on quickly.

"Humph. Well, Potter," she stated, her Scottish burr thickened by her appreciation of whatever it was she found so funny, "either you've grown up astonishingly in the last year, or you still rely on Miss Granger for her constructive advice. Either way, that's a very sensible decision. It will also make it easier to hold Order meetings about the Wand, and ensure you won't be out in the field fighting hardened criminals for the next year. Hopefully that should be long enough to disable the wand and make you less of a risk."

Kingsley looked a little disappointed by this sudden shift in expectations, but with all three members of the trio, two professors from the school and both of Ron's parents united in their support of the plan, he had little choice but to agree.

"There's only one other thing," added Ron. "Hermione needs to go to Australia and retrieve her parents, and I don't think she should go alone. I'm happy to go, but that means I'll be late in starting the training program."

Hermione wanted to reach out and squeeze Ron's hand again, but felt too awkward to do so. She smiled at him instead.

"I don't want you to miss out, Ron," she replied. Hermione couldn't help herself from sending a quick glance towards Snape; he was scowling, his brows pinched together. "Actually," she ventured, pressing onwards despite his black expression, "I had hoped Professor Snape might agree to come with me . . . after all, he and I set the charms together, and I would appreciate his help in reversing the process."

All eyes turned towards Snape as she finished speaking; he glared back at her.

"That," he noted after several seconds silence, "would be acceptable."

"Great!" enthused Ron. "That's everything sorted then."

_Well, __not__ quite __everything_, thought Hermione, even as relief rushed through her. The looming spectre of her Australian voyage seemed far less terrifying in light of Snape's decision, but the constant churning of anxiety hadn't evaporated. It sat beneath everything else she might be doing: thoughts of the destruction at Hogwarts, the many upcoming funerals—not least Fred's—and the horrible media circus that they would all soon have to face tumbled one over another in a sickening spiral. _One __thing__ at__ a__ time_, she told herself.

* * *

><p>Hermione had forty-five minutes before the press conference and she hurried purposefully down Diagon Alley.<p>

"Get through today," she muttered. She tried not to think of following day, which if anything, was going to be worse. As she passed Gringotts, she turned her head and stared in frank astonishment. The amount of damage she and the boys had managed to incur was astounding. Although the site was guarded by dozens of goblins, her view of the scorched walls and the damaged facade was unimpeded. The frame of the great doors was buckled, and they hung from their hinges. From what she could see of the inside, it looked as if a large portion of the floor had caved in.

Staring at the devastation, Hermione was shocked to realise that it was only six days since the bank heist itself; it seemed like much longer. From what she'd heard from Kingsley and Bill, the goblins were adamant that the Ministry should pay for the building repairs, and it was Bill's opinion that several quite substantial concessions would be necessary to mend the truce between the two races. He had also implied that questions of security were going to attract significant attention.

Hurrying onwards, Hermione soon reached the entrance to Ollivander's store. She tried the door only to find it locked and had to battle a bitter gutful of disappointment as she knocked against the wooden frame. She pressed her face to one of the glass panes, shielding her eyes against the light and straining to see into the gloomy interior. Something inside moved.

"Mr Ollivander!" she called. "It's me, Hermione Granger."

It didn't take the old wandmaker long to open the door. As he did so, the bells above it tinkled gently.

"Good evening, my dear. You must excuse me-these days I like to know who it is before I let them in."

"Of course. I'm just glad to have caught you."

It was not much of a surprise to find the master craftsman more careful than he had once been: imprisonment and torture will do that to a person. He smiled at her over his glasses, looking far healthier than he had at Shell Cottage, though he'd taken to walking with a cane.

"Now, young lady, how can I help you?" Ollivander beckoned her further into the shop and closed the door behind her, locking it carefully.

"It's about my wand." Hermione had three wands in her pocket, but she pulled out only two. "This is my original wand," she remarked, passing the first one to Ollivander.

"Ah, yes, how well I remember!" he commented, bending over it. "Vine wood, ten and three-quarter inches, dragon heartstring."

"Yes. Well, as I'm sure you know, I . . . lost it at Malfoy Manor. I was lucky enough to retrieve it after Bellatrix Lestrange's death, but since then it hasn't worked properly."

Ollivander made a moue of distaste and held up one hand in a gesture that made it perfectly clear that he understood her implication. "And the other?" he asked.

"I obtained this from a Death Eater during the Final Battle," she said, hating the capital letters on "Final" and "Battle" as she heard herself pronounce them. "It works okay, I guess, but I don't like it very much either."

Hermione passed the second wand to the expert before her.

"Ah!" He nodded in recognition. "Jeremy Jugson: maple, thirteen inches precisely, unicorn hair. A hard wood, stiff and unyielding; good for bindings." He placed both wands side-by-side on the counter. "I take it you're in the market for something new?"

"Yes." Hermione looked down at the two thin strips of wood with growing trepidation. "The only thing is, that with the bank closed, I don't have any money right now. I was hoping that I might make an exchange: two for one—"

"My dear Miss Granger, without the help of you and your friends, I might have died in that terrible place! You have no need of money here—now or ever!"

"That is very generous of you, sir," she noted, "but . . ."

"That may be," added Ollivander, interrupting her and covering the two wands she'd attempted to barter with one liver-spotted hand, "However, I'd be more than willing to take these off your hands."

"Please do!" The exchange made Hermione feel better about the whole situation; she had little desire to take something for nothing.

"Now, then, let's see . . ."

Ollivander began pulling narrow boxes from his shelves as his tape measure began to float and flutter around Hermione, measuring everything from the bushiness of her hair to the circumference of her ankles. The situation recalled her first appearance in Diagon Alley at the age of eleven, and the memory brought a lump to her throat.

Yet, while last time she had found her wand—or more properly, the wand had found her—very quickly, this time was different. Ollivander's stock had been much depleted by Death Eaters during the time they'd held it in custody, and then again by Muggleborns whose wands had been lost or broken by the Muggleborn Registration Committee—still, the number of wands he had her try was impressive. Ollivander himself seemed delighted by the challenge and was humming happily to himself as he pulled out more and more specimens.

"Unless . . ." he said suddenly, pausing with one had extended as he considered the thought.

"What?" asked Hermione curiously.

Ollivander turned slowly on the ball of one foot and leant down towards the shelves underneath the clunky, old-fashioned cash register. Almost reverently, he picked up a polished wooden box and placed it on the counter, his hands resting gently on top.

"The wand that I'm about to show you, Miss Granger, is unique in my collection."

Hermione couldn't pull her eyes from the box, though he'd yet to even touch the clasp.

"No doubt you're aware that I tend to use only three wand cores: phoenix feather, unicorn hair and dragon heartstring. This wand is the exception. Many, many years ago, when I was around your age, in fact, I took a tour of the continent after graduation. One evening, all alone in the Italian mountains, I was set upon by an Iberian lynx. Foolishly, I managed to drop my wand and might even have lost my life, but that—miraculously—I was saved by a gryphon."

"They're so rare!"

"You can imagine my astonishment!" Ollivander was caught up in the storytelling now and gestured animatedly to emphasise his point. "She was magnificent! Beautiful, deadly and absolutely awe inspiring! I cannot express in words the startling effect of her coppery plumage, or the power of her leonine body. At the front, her beak and claws gleamed golden.

"Throughout the long night she sat watch over my pitiful campfire, and in the morning, she was gone. All that remained was a single feather. That feather—and the raw power that emanated from it—sent me hurrying back home to the family business, newly inspired to take up my role as wandmaker. The magic of such artefacts can be ground out or boiled down in potions, of course, but only in wandmaking is the object kept whole and used as the core of something that remains intrinsically beautiful in its own right."

Hermione blinked at the elderly man before her. As he spoke, his eyes shone with passion for his work; his words stirred her at a deep level that she couldn't have put into words.

"The particular feather itself, however," he continued, smiling self-deprecatingly, "I saved for many years. I didn't want to waste it in one of my early experiments, nor to pair it with a wood that was below par. It wasn't until about six years ago that I saw my chance."

"Why? What happened six years ago?"

Ollivander held up a gnarled finger. "Aha! There was some kind of accident up at the school, and the Whomping Willow was damaged!"

Hermione gasped. She knew exactly what the accident had been. Ollivander snapped open the clasp and then lifted the lid of the box, but since it was facing him, Hermione still couldn't see inside. She craned her neck slightly—as subtly as she could—but to no avail.

"Now, normally, of course, it is best to ask permission of the tree before taking wandwood, however, in this instance Pomona _assured_ me that the tree preferred that the broken branches be put to use rather than wasted."

Finally, Ollivander lifted the wand from where it lay in the case, and Hermione got a glimpse of it. The wood was pale and lustrous; it shone. Her hand itched to reach out and touch it.

"Whomping willow; eleven-and-a-half inches, precisely. The combination of gryphon feather and Whomping Willow wood makes this a powerful wand, and a distinctly feminine one. The Whomping Willow is an incredible tree: strong, flexible, sentient."

He flexed the wand in his hand, bending it so that it curved dramatically. Hermione had a sudden urge to snatch it from him. She was worried it would snap.

"You'd be hard pressed to break this wand," commented Ollivander smugly. "Try it," he offered, holding it out towards her.

Hesitantly, expectantly, with her bottom lip between her teeth. Hermione reached out to take it. Even before her hand closed around the delicately carved handle, she knew it was the right wand. When she did so, a rush of warmth and rightness flooded through her fingertips and up into her chest—the sensation was so strong that she staggered back. A fountain of golden sparks burst from the tip and slowly floated down over the piles of discarded wands; Ollivander clapped his hands in delight.

"Wonderful!" he exclaimed. "You should find the wand particularly amenable to defensive spells, and, of course, the gryphon feather means that the wand will be especially suited to Transfiguration and Charms."

"Mr Ollivander, it's beautiful!" she breathed. "It must be worth a fortune," she added, suddenly bereft. "I cannot take this from you, Mr Ollivander."

"Nonsense!" he replied, waving her back with both hands. "The wand chooses the wizard—or witch, of course, as the case may be. The wand is yours, and it is my pleasure to give it to you."

And despite all of her protestations, he wouldn't take no for an answer, nor would he agree to let her pay for it at some later date when she had the money to do so. With her willow wand in hand, Hermione wandered off to the press conference—just in time, she hoped, to find Neville before it started and exchange a few words.

Finding Neville proved simple enough, and Hermione pulled him to one side. Reaching into her pocket, she pulled out the twelve and three quarter inches of walnut wand that she carried there.

"Hey, Neville," she said a little hesitantly, glancing up at him. "I thought you might want this."

From the way the lines at the sides of his mouth deepened, she knew that he recognised the wand for what it was.

"At first, I planned to destroy it myself, then I thought you might want to. Just today it occurred to me that the wand itself might provide some information or clues to the mediwitches and wizards who look after you parents."

Neville nodded and slowly closed his hand around the dark strip of wood. He pulled a face as his skin made contact. "It's nasty, isn't it?" he commented.

"Yes."

"Thanks, Hermione," he added softly, glancing up from the wand to meet her eye. "I really appreciate this." He spoke seriously, and his words and demeanour emphasised the changes the last year had wrought.

Hermione felt a sudden urge to comfort him and, impulsively, she threw her arms around him and gave him a quick squeeze.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, surprised by her gesture. He patted her a little awkwardly on the back. "Come on," he added after a couple of seconds, "let's go and face the crowds."

Hermione followed him back out into the street without complaint. He seemed taller, she noted, but she couldn't tell whether he had in fact grown, or whether the effect was the result of the weight he'd lost and the newly-confident way he walked.

The press conference itself—staged, for maximum photographic impact, on the steps of Gringotts—was every bit the palaver Hermione had imagined it would be, although Severus Snape's scowling presence managed to shut down several of Rita Skeeter's most impertinent questions. The fact that Fawkes spent the entire meeting perched on Snape's shoulder only added to his sense of authority. It wasn't until everyone was leaving that Hermione had a moment alone with Ron.

"You'll be there tomorrow, right?" he asked, a little too casually to be sincere.

He couldn't possibly imagine she might miss Fred's funeral.

"Of course!" Hermione reached out for Ron and pulled him into a hug. His body was stiff against hers, but from the way he drew in a sharp breath through his nose, she knew he needed it.

"Just checking." He sighed into her hair, and then disentangled her arms, pushing her gently but firmly away. "I'm going to go home and help mum," he said, with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes.

Hermione blinked back a prickle of tears, knowing that he was fighting his own rush of emotion. _My __brave, __brave__ boy_, she thought and leaned forwards to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

"Go on, then," she urged. "I'll see you tomorrow." If he needed to hear her say it, she would: loud and clear.

She had no doubt that the funeral was going to be difficult for everyone.

* * *

><p>The ceremony took place in the back yard of the Burrow, in the same place and under the same tent in which Bill and Fleur had been married the previous year. The same celebrant was there, too, and he gave a fairly mediocre and generic speech about the perils of wartime, the glory of the fight against evil and the sorrow of losing a fine man in the full flush of his youth.<p>

Hermione had to bite back tears at the inadequacy of the situation, and she cast her eyes around the black robes and disproportionally red hair of the small crowd of assembled mourners. She held tightly to Ron's hand, squeezing it as if she could communicate her wish for it all to be better through the few square inches of skin contact. On Ron's other side, Ginny was staring stonily into space, her face set and hard. Molly was just in front of Hermione, with Arthur on one side, Percy on the other. Both men had an arm around her back, and she sobbed noisily, her tears an oddly percussive counterpoint to the droning speech.

When the official eulogy came to an end, Hermione felt nothing but relief. From the far side of Ginny, she heard George mutter something too soft to be made out, then, to the surprise of everyone present, he strode up to the front of the room and cleared his throat.

"Fred and I," he began awkwardly, his voice slightly too loud for the space, "never quite managed the trick of working out where one of us ended and the other begun. He locked me in the bathroom once, when I was smaller than I care to remember: I spent the hour talking to my reflection in the mirror on the back of the door—convinced I was looking at him and he was copying my gestures only to annoy me."

A small, uncertain wave of laughter rippled over the crowd.

"Brilliant," muttered Ginny fiercely. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she was holding onto the tops of her arms so hard that her knuckles gleamed.

"I thought," continued George, sounding more certain now, "that I'd solved the problem of how to tell us apart once and for all." He gestured at the scarred side of his head and the hole where his ear should have been. "But Fred, being Fred, had to go one better."

By this point, tears were running unchecked down Hermione's face, but she was laughing, too. George's irreverence was far realer than any talk about glory and sacrifice.

"I'd give my other ear, and a few other limbs as well, just to have him back, but since that's not really an option, the best I can do is to see him out with a bang. That, my friends, is the way my other half would like to be remembered."

George drew his wand and pointed it towards the tented ceiling, sending the sheets of canvas curling back from the frame and exposing the sky above.

"For Fred!" he cried, pointing his wand towards the back of the garden and shooting a small ball of flame into a small thicket. There was a substantial bang, and several fireworks—the first, it soon became clear, of a veritable galaxy—shot skywards.

"For Fred!" shouted Ron, whooping as he threw a fist into the air.

"Of course," added George, turning back towards the mourners, his tears marking visible streaks down his cheeks, "Fred would kill me if I failed to mention that you, too, can enjoy Weasley's Wildfire Whiz-bangs in the comfort of your own home! Only five galleons for the Basic Blaze Box, or twenty galleons for the Deflagration Deluxe!"

The crowd, Hermione among them, cheered as the sky blazed with coloured lights. Fiery dragons, luminous Catherine Wheels and sparklers that spelled "Poo" lit up the sky above them. The immediate Weasley family surged forward, meeting George by the coffin, and they hugged and held each other under the shifting kaleidoscope of light. Then, as one, they bent to lift Fred's body.

Ron and Bill stood at the very back, with George and Arthur, followed by Percy and Charlie in the middle. Ginny and Molly, the shortest of the group, took the front. Carefully, they lifted the coffin until it balanced on their shoulders, then, awkwardly, they walked it across the garden to the grave that had been dug to one side of the small lawn.

Hermione, unlike Harry, had never really come to grips with the importance of doing some things without magic, but seeing the Weasleys carry Fred, in his heavy wooden box, from one side of their back yard to the other, she understood what was happening. She cried and cried, shaking with sobs as she fell in behind them. Harry put an arm around her and pulled her to him; tears were running down his face, too.

It didn't take long to lower Fred's body down into the hole, or for those present to throw in a handful of dirt. George took responsibility for levitating the rest of the soil into place. The reception, though, was a different matter. For long hours, Hermione held tight to Ron's hand and sipped warily at her cup of punch—George had quite openly spiked it, claiming that he did so in Fred's honour—and laughed and cried until her face ached at the endless stories of Fred that everyone wanted to tell. It was late by the time Molly insisted everyone go to bed, leaving the last of the clean up until the morning.

Hermione and Ron slipped up the stairs alone, and paused on the landing where they should have parted ways. They were both slightly tipsy, though Ron—Hermione had noticed—had been equally circumspect with regard to the punch, and neither one of them was drunk. For a long couple of seconds, they both stood unmoving, until Hermione stepped forwards and put a hand on Ron's chest.

Ron started back, stumbling slightly and lurching into the wall. His response made Hermione feel awkward, and she would have pulled back herself, but then, unexpectedly, he pulled her to him, wrapping both arms tightly around her and burying his face in the crook of her neck.

"You were so nice to me today," he whispered into his skin, so quietly that she could barely hear him.

"Oh, Ron," she sighed, winding her arms around his neck. She turned her face towards him, feeling the faint rasp of his evening stubble against her lips as she sought out his mouth. It took a clumsy few seconds to get everything angled correctly, but then they were kissing: she felt his desperate, urgent loneliness in the way that he opened his mouth to her and pulled her tight against his chest; she tried to comfort him by pushing up against him and plunging her tongue in beside his.

Several minutes later, they pulled back slightly, gasping for breath. Their foreheads were pressed together, and one of Ron's hands lay against Hermione's cheek, with the pad of his thumb poised on her cheekbone.

"Stay with me," he breathed, and she nodded her response.

"Come on," she whispered, twining her fingers in his and pulling him towards the staircase.

As quietly as possible, they snuck up the stairs to the topmost floor and let themselves in to Ron's old room. Molly had evicted the ghoul the moment Ron's cover had blown, months ago, so while the room was stale and felt unlived in, it was clean and ghoul free.

Leaving no time for awkwardness, Ron pulled off his dress robes as soon as the door closed behind him; the clothes he wore underneath followed quickly afterwards. Hermione took longer and by the time she'd removed her shoes and her robes, Ron was rummaging around in his cupboard dressed in nothing but a pair of Chuddley Cannons boxers. She would have been quicker if she hadn't wasted time admiring the defined muscles in his chest and shoulder, and the way his calves tapered down towards his ankles.

"Here you are," he said, unexpectedly emerging with an old pair of pyjamas, faded and threadbare at the elbows, but still orange. In his other hand, he held an old red t-shirt, which he promptly pulled over his head.

Bedclothes hadn't been on Hermione's horizon of expectation, but she didn't want to embarrass Ron, so, obediently, she put them on.

"Come on," he murmured, pulling back the covers and climbing into bed.

Tingling with anticipation, and yet not sure what to expect from this oddly pragmatic scene of intimacy, Hermione climbed in after him, carefully sliding her legs under the sheets of his narrow bed and snuggling her body up against his. With one hand, she found the hem of his t-shirt and slid her palm up over his chest, admiring the contrast of his coarse hairs and firm muscle. She sought out one of his nipples.

Ron froze.

"Hermione," he whispered in a strangled voice, grabbing her hand through the fabric of his shirt. "Please, just . . . just hold me. Tonight, I just need—"

"Shh," she whispered back, pulling him towards her and cradling his head on her shoulder. "It's okay, I'm right here."

As Hermione rubbed soft circles on Ron's back, he fell fast asleep, one arm wrapped tightly around her waist, one leg slung over the two of hers. It took longer for Hermione to drift off. She spent a considerable time staring up at the slanted ceiling and peeling posters above Ron's childhood bed, cataloguing and critiquing the insidious feeling of mortification that accompanied the realisation that she'd actively wanted sex when her boyfriend was so clearly distraught over the death of his brother.

* * *

><p>AN: There you go, a REAL chapter at last! The story continues . . . I'm hoping to stick to the kind of once-a-week schedule I maintained during the last two stories, but I'm going to need all of the encouragement I can get-particularly as this hideous semester drags to a monstrous end! Your reviews are love.


	3. Chapter 2: To the Manor Born

_Phoenix Fire (or, Hermione Granger and the Elder Wand)_, Chapter Two: To the Manor Born.

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters that populate this story are the property of the incomparably talented and infinitely generous J.K. Rowling. I am thankful to Ms. Rowling for her stories, and for her admirable open mindedness on the subject of fanfiction.

I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

Thanks are due, once again, to Ari, who doesn't just read this crazy story and give me the benefit of her advice, but also inspires me to be a better teacher, thinker and writer of thoughtful words (happy birthday!).

* * *

><p>Once Poppy gave him permission to leave his sickbed and move around, Severus made his way down into the basement of Spinner's End. There he had a rudimentary lab and a stockpile of the most common potions ingredients. Poppy was also obliging enough to fetch the few necessary items he lacked from the Hogwarts stores—Boomslang skin, Niffler blood platelets and pre-stewed Lacewing flies. Thus equipped, he spent a peaceful four hours brewing.<p>

The complexities of the Paternity Potion were enough to keep his mind from dwelling on the unwelcome sight of Hermione Granger hand-in-hand with Ronald Weasley, or the two of them squashed in the armchair across from his couch, and while he did suffer the occasional twinge of anxiety as to what the results of the potion would prove, logic reassured him that Jocelyn Smith was an unlikely Malfoy. He'd made the story up; the possibility that it would turn out to be true were slim indeed.

When complete, the potion was a deep burgundy, like fine wine, and Severus bottled it carefully. The mixture gave enough for half a dozen doses, and as a Class F tradable substance, he would be able to sell all that remained for a tidy profit.

In consultation with Jocelyn, Vector (who'd agreed to run the necessary Arithmantic component) and Kingsley, Severus turned up at Malfoy Manor the day after Fred Weasley's funeral, at three o'clock precisely. Fawkes deposited him just outside the gates. The foolish bird seemed to believe he was doing Severus a favour by transporting him around the country, but luckily, Severus managed to convince the phoenix to wait for him outside. Things with Lucius were going to be strained enough as it was.

Since the Malfoys were under house arrest it was no shock to see the pair of Aurors on guard at either side of the wrought iron gates. Vector and Jocelyn had arrived before him and they stood to one side. Jocelyn had been bold enough to turn up in Muggle attire—presumably to irritate Lucius, or, at the least, to mark her difference from the Malfoy family in the most obvious and visible manner. Kingsley arrived within minutes, and, to Severus' surprise, he'd brought his sister with him. It was a long time since Severus had met her and he spent several seconds racking his brain in an attempt to remember her name.

"Severus! I'm glad you could make it. You remember my sister, Kaleisha, of course?"

"Of course," Severus sketched a half bow towards the woman and her wheelchair. She nodded back. "I hadn't realised you planned to return to England," he added.

"Well, with my little brother as Minister for Magic, the political climate was suddenly much more inviting than it had been before."

"Kaleisha has been kind enough to move back here from New York and oversee the reform of the Wizengamot. She thinks it past time that we applied due legal process to our court cases."

Severus smiled politely at both Shacklebolts, noting the fond expression Kingsley wore as he looked at his sister. If she hadn't been one of the world's leading experts in magical ethics, the whole situation would have reeked of nepotism; as it was, though, any critic would seem merely petty. Almost dispassionately, Severus wondered what consequences her reforms would have on the Malfoys' future: if Lucius intended to buy their way out of trouble, Kaleisha might pose serious problems, yet if he pleaded for leniency, she might prove his saviour. No doubt her presence today was meant to deliver the message that the Wizengamot was no longer susceptible to the injection of copious quantities of cash.

Kingsley spoke with one of the guards, and after each of them displayed their wands and was waved over by a Secrecy Sensor they were let through the gates. With both Kingsley and Kaleisha in traditional African robes—including, in Kaleisha's case, a large, brightly patterned headscarf—Severus in his usual black, Vector in a noticeably shabby teaching gown, and Jocelyn's cut-off jeans and t-shirt, they made an odd group.

As they made their way up the long, winding driveway, Vector and Kaleisha made polite conversation. Save that and the whirring of Kaleisha's wheels, there was very little noise. The closer they got to the house, the deeper Jocelyn's scowl grew.

"Sir," she inquired abruptly within sight of the imposing front door, "you made the potion right, didn't you?"

If she hadn't been so visibly nervous, Severus would have ignored such an impertinent question. As it was, he raised an eyebrow.

"I see that your teenaged teacher in Bulgaria has raised your potioneering standards so dramatically that a mere Potions Master will no longer suffice."

Her eyes widened dramatically at the tone of his voice. "I'm sorry!" she exclaimed, thoroughly penitent. "I didn't mean that! It's just . . . I just want it to work." She pulled a face and picked nervously at a the threads on the hem of her shorts.

Jocelyn clearly hadn't enjoyed her time as a Malfoy.

"I guarantee that the results will be accurate; what the result will be depends on the blood sample."

Jocelyn nodded her understanding as they got to the wide marble steps of the entrance hall. Kaleisha, Severus was interested to note, merely flicked a switch on the armrest of her wheelchair in order to navigate the stairs. Her chair sprouted an extra two pairs of wheels and used the triangular arrangement to step its way up without any noticeable trouble. Moments later, Kingsley rapped on the front door. Practically instantaneously, it was opened by a wizened house-elf who bowed deeply and waved them inside.

Lucius had the gall—or the poor taste—to receive them in the purple drawing room, where the carcass of the chandelier still testified to the carnage it had recently witnessed. It was an odd choice of location, and Severus wasn't clear whether Lucius meant to demonstrate his dedication to Voldemort's cause or the extent to which his family estate had suffered under the Dark Lord's occupation. Either way, for Severus it called up Granger's torture under Lucius' watch, and a sudden wave of fury caught in his throat.

"Severus!" enthused Narcissa, rising gracefully at his appearance in the doorway and gliding over to take his hand. "It is always a pleasure to see you; you should come more frequently."

"I'm afraid I've been a trifle under the weather," he replied deadpan. He didn't need to add: _Lucius__ sent __me__ to __my __death_. They were Slytherins, they would understand the inference.

Pulling his hand free from her grip, he stalked over to the dining table, nodding a greeting at Draco as he crossed the room. Jocelyn followed closely on his heels, refusing to greet Lucius, who attempted to catch her eye, but gracing Draco with a quick glance. Severus removed the small phial of deep red potion and placed it on the table.

Vector spent several minutes being far more polite than Severus had, greeting everyone before making her way over to stand at his side. She pulled out a clean sheet of parchment and placed it beside the Paternity Potion. Pulling a new quill from her pocket she offered it to Kaleisha and Kingsley.

"As our objective observers, I assume that one of you would like to trim this?"

Kingsley supplied a penknife from a deep pocket and obligingly did the deed. Then the fresh, newly sharpened quill was laid on the paper.

Severus glanced around the room. Vector, as was her wont, was smiling benignly; Jocelyn was frowning; the Shacklebolts looked polite, but also dangerous. The Malfoys senior were projecting the kind of suave urbanity they were famed for, but Draco looked anxious.

"Shall we begin?" he asked, addressing himself to the room in general. When everyone took a step closer to the table, Severus uncorked the bottle of potion and gestured at Jocelyn and then Lucius with his wand. "I will need samples of your blood."

"I give it willingly," intoned Lucius obediently, rolling back his sleeve. Though his voice sounded calm, Severus felt the sudden shock of knowing that the man was nervous. And so he should be: a lot was riding on this result. For Lucius Malfoy, known Death Eater, a Muggle-born daughter who'd fought on the winning side dangled like a priceless asset. If she wasn't his, he might be able to salvage some credit merely for having adopted a "Mudblood" Slytherin, but the two possibilities promised vastly different consequences.

"I give mine willingly, too," added Jocelyn, proffering the inside of her arm. Her jaw was set.

_There__ is __almost __no __chance __they __will __turn __out__ to __be __related_, Severus hurried to reassure himself. _And __once__ that__'__s __proven,__ once __and __for __all, __then __I__'__ll__—_ He shut that thought down instantly. _Time __enough__ to __dwell __on __that __later_.

Despite his resolve, as he pressed the tip of his wand to the crook of Jocelyn's arm, he couldn't help but think of the day they'd spent together in Diagon Alley. He heard her voice echoing in the spaces of his memory: _"__Daddy.__"_

Firming his mouth into a thin line, Severus siphoned several drops of blood from Jocelyn and then Lucius and added both samples to the phial of potion. Resealing it, he twisted the container three times clockwise, and once in the counter direction. That done, he thumbed the cork off once again, and stepped back to allow Vector access to the liquid.

Vector smiled encouragingly at Jocelyn before dipping her quill. The equation itself was fairly simple, and Severus would have been more than capable of performing this part of the process as well. For official purposes, though, it was better to separate the two halves of the procedure.

The room was so tense with anticipation that the scratch of Vector's pen held everyone's attention as she wrote across the parchment. The magic itself was simple: if the potion was brewed correctly—as this one was—and if the two blood samples proved a paternal match, the equation would solve at 100%. Anything less would indicate a blood relationship of some other degree; zero revealed a lack of genetic match.

"Are we ready?" inquired Vector, having laid down the quill and drawn her wand. She held it with the tip barely an eighth of an inch from the surface of the parchment.

"Go ahead," encouraged Kingsley. The urgency in his voice indicated that he, too, had caught the anticipation that hung heavy in the air.

"_Solutio_."

As Vector spoke, the equation shimmered and solved; the answer appeared at the far edge of the parchment.

Somebody gasped. Not Severus: he was speechless, the blood pounding in his ears.

"My daughter!" marvelled Lucius, a genuinely happy smile on his face. Draco, standing behind him, looked torn between relief and concern.

"No!" exclaimed Jocelyn. "It can't be! He's not my father!"

"The result holds," responded Kaleisha, not without sympathy, but her voice was firm.

Narcissa was staring at Jocelyn with frank surprise. "I always wanted a daughter," she said in an odd voice.

Jocelyn stared at her in horror. "No!" she reiterated. "It's not fair." Pulling her wand from the pocket of her shorts, she held it out in a familiar pose, point downwards. She cast a desperate glance at Snape. "Lucius Abraxas Malfoy," she announced, "you are no father of mine!"

Snape reached out and grasped the hilt of her wand, closing his hand around hers and interrupting her. "It won't work," he informed her gently.

"But—"

"It won't work until you come of age, Jocelyn. If that were not the case, we'd have teenage witches and wizards disowning their parents during every bout of pre-pubescent angst."

Jocelyn let out a long breath; she looked deflated, and—for a moment—her lower lip trembled. "What can I do?" she asked Snape, looking up at him as if he could solve everything.

And yet he couldn't solve this. This was a mess of his own making: if Severus hadn't been so keen to keep Jocelyn nearby, he might not have lost her now. The realisation was like bitter ashes in his throat.

Before he could think of a suitable response, Vector interrupted.

"For the moment, Jocelyn," she interpolated smoothly, "I suggest you choose a guardian. Mr Malfoy here has proven to be your legal father, which makes Mrs Malfoy your adoptive mother, but since they're both currently confined under house arrest and you are not, you will require a guardian—at least until their present situation is resolved."

"I believe, Madam," interjected Lucius icily, "that the choice of guardian is mine!"

"Doctor," replied Vector—smiling still, but with an edge Severus had never seen before.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Doctor, or Professor; but not Madam."

Lucius' eyes widened, and Severus wondered when the irritating, pompous man had last been called out for a social solecism.

"Regardless of your correct title, _Professor_," he snarled, "legally, the choice of guardian belongs to me."

"In theory Mr Malfoy is correct—although, only in consultation with his wife," noted Kaleisha, "for, correct me if I am wrong, she filed for full parental rights when the paternity claim was lodged with the Ministry?"

"Indeed I did," confirmed Narcissa.

"Under the current circumstances," continued Kaleisha, gracing Narcissa with a smile, "any designated guardian will also need the consent of a representative of the Magical Law Enforcement department."

"How convenient," noted Kingsley. "Kaleisha had her MLE qualifications renewed earlier today. I suggest that we take this opportunity to appoint a guardian who is acceptable to all interested parties—there included Miss Jocelyn Malfoy, as well as both her parents."

Kingsley was, Severus was obliged to concede, a masterful manipulator.

"I would like to suggest Severus," stated Narcissa promptly. Turning her eyes towards him, she reached out and took hold of his arm. "You have always protected our family, Severus. You're the logical choice."

Severus swallowed, his throat too dry to speak. Narcissa's words poured salt onto a wound so fresh he hadn't yet managed to secure his defences.

"Mr Malfoy?" asked Kaleisha. "Are you in agreement with your wife on this matter, or would you like to propose another candidate?"

Severus turned his eyes towards Lucius; the two men held each others gaze for a long, charged moment. Lucius blinked first.

Turning towards Kaleisha, Lucius gave a formal half bow. "Severus would be perfectly acceptable," he informed her.

"Miss Malfoy?" she asked next.

Jocelyn looked as if she might complain about the appellation, but she, too, turned towards Severus. "Professor Snape would be perfect," she said at last, arms folded over her chest.

Kaleisha smiled. "Severus Snape," she remarked, "your candidacy is perfectly acceptable to the Ministry; are you willing to accept this responsibility?"

Severus hesitated before answering, though he knew—as well as anyone present—exactly what his response would be. He stood, however, and considered the Malfoys—all four of them, and their pale blond hair. He noted Draco's watchful grey eyes, and Jocelyn's upset blue ones. For the first time, he saw the many ways in which her distressed expression mirrored Lucius'; the way that her narrow chin and the shape of her mouth were like his, just softer and smaller.

_What a ridiculous situation._

"I will," he replied finally.

His agreement sparked a flurry of activity, as Kingsley and Kaleisha pulled out copies of the official paperwork and it was filled out, signed, sealed and witnessed.

"Wonderful!" exclaimed Vector, smiling as the papers were tucked away. "I'm glad that was so easily arranged to everyone's satisfaction."

"Draco," said Jocelyn, her clear voice cutting across the hum of conversation, "I'm happy to have you as a brother."

With a disdainful look at her legal parents, and a fleeting grimace that might have counted as a goodbye aimed at the Shacklebolts and Vector, she strode out of the room. Her skinny white legs and the frayed edges of her denim shorts looked farcically incongruous against the opulent doorway that framed her departure.

"You will excuse me," said Severus, seizing the chance to bow and then leave. "My responsibilities call."

Draco lifted a hand in farewell, but no-one made to stop Severus as he strode after Jocelyn, his robes billowing behind him. He found her less than one hundred metres from the front doors, seated on a white marble bench and sobbing furiously, her head buried in her lap.

"Here," he said brusquely, offering her a handkerchief.

She took it with an audible sniff and blew her nose loudly. "It's not fair!" she exclaimed. "I wanted . . . I wanted it to be you."

Severus sank down onto the bench beside her and stared out into the lush foliage of the Malfoy estate.

"Jocelyn," he said heavily. He wanted to tell her that he'd hoped that, too; he wanted to rage at the irony of a world where—even in defeat—Lucius Malfoy managed to keep hold of everything that was precious, while Severus had nothing, just empty hands clutching desperately at grains of slippery sand. "We can't choose our fathers," he stated eventually. "But we don't have to let them define us, either."

Jocelyn pulled in a shaky breath and sighed deeply. Then she straightened her shoulders and dried her eyes. There was a new, determined expression on her face. Severus watched her tuck his handkerchief into her pocket and get resolutely to her feet.

"Right," she stated firmly. "I'm ready to go home now. Could you take me back to Hogwarts?"

Severus was happy to comply.

* * *

><p>At the express request of the defendants and of several key witnesses, the Malfoy trials began just over a week later. Draco was first.<p>

When Severus arrived, the courtroom was packed. He saw Molly sitting up the back next to Augusta Longbottom, running one hand self consciously down the lapel of her new Wizengamot robes—it had taken nearly four hours and a fair quantity of Firewhisky for Minerva to override all of Molly's insecurities and to convince her that, with her youngest two children due to graduate from Hogwarts this year, even Madam Weasley would have plenty of time and energy to invest outside of the house. He saw the golden trio, sitting together. Granger's hand sat in the crook of Weasley's arm, and Severus turned quickly the other way. Rita Skeeter waved a hand decked with long, fake pink nails to catch his attention, but Severus looked beyond her to where Hooch jerked a thumb at an empty seat and he scaled the benches to slip in beside her.

"Did you see the young Malfoy girl?" she asked, grinning.

"No, why?"

"Have a look at her t-shirt." Hooch gestured with her head towards the front of the room.

Following her eyes, Severus spied Jocelyn in conversation with Kaleisha Shacklebolt. She wore a green shirt emblazoned with the phrase "Mudblood Pride" in large, golden letters.

"Good grief."

"Bloody brilliant if you ask me. I like her!" exclaimed Hooch gleefully

"You would." Severus crossed his arms and frowned. "Subtlety never was your strong point."

It took another fifteen minutes before the room was settled and Draco was brought in. He looked particularly young sitting in chains before the huge crowd.

Kaleisha, who had been appointed High Inquisitor of the Wizengamot, read out the charges, marshalled the witnesses and asked questions whenever she thought the Interrogators had failed to do so appropriately. Draco pleaded guilty to the charge of voluntarily joining a known terrorist organisation, and of aiding and abetting in the murder of Albus Dumbledore; he pleaded not guilty to a range of other, lesser crimes.

Severus sat with his hands tightly clenched inside his long sleeves. Harry Potter, Hermione Granger, Jocelyn and he himself had testified in Draco's defence. _Surely_, he told himself, not for the first time, _four such __celebrated__ war __heroes will be __enough_. As each of them in turn attested to Draco's remorse, and detailed his efforts to protect the Boy Who Lived and his friends, Severus wondered how any Wizengamot member present could legitimately regard the young man before them as the epitome of evil. Still, when the court pronounced his sentence—eighteen months good behaviour bond—Severus felt an inordinate sense of relief.

He even smiled at Hooch when she clapped him on the shoulder.

Later that evening, Severus dropped by Malfoy Manor. He was looking for Draco, but upon his arrival an elderly house-elf showed him into a small, wood-panelled office on the second floor. There he found Lucius, drinking alone. While far from drunk, Mr Malfoy senior had reached a loquacious state and was evidently relieved to have company. Without further ado Severus found himself seated in a velvet wingchair with a tumbler of Firewhisky pressed into one hand. The house-elf who had shown him in disappeared with a sharp crack.

"_Please,__ Lucius,_" mocked the man of the same name, dropping his voice to imitate Severus' deeper tones. "_I__'__m __a __Slytherin. __If __I __were __to __betray __you, __I __wouldn__'__t__ tell __you__ about __it._"

_So_, reflected Severus, _that__'__s __the __way __it__'__s __going __to __be_. He swallowed a mouthful of liquor in place of a reply.

"Such carefully chosen words, Severus," commented Lucius more normally. "It's odd to think that Bellatrix was right about you."

Severus hummed noncommittally. For several long seconds, there was silence; Severus swallowed another long, slow mouthful of Firewhisky and Lucius swirled the liquid in his glass.

"Why?" Lucius asked at last, looking up and into the fire.

Severus sighed. "There was a time," he replied slowly, staring at the smoky coils in his own glass, "when I confused my hatred for my Muggle father with a hatred of Muggles. Soon afterwards, I realised I was wrong."

"How soon afterwards?"

"Very soon."

There was another lengthy silence, broken only when Lucius sighed.

"I suppose you think I should thank you," commented Lucius at last.

Involuntarily, Severus stiffened, and his grip on his Firewhisky tightened.

"For saving Draco, I mean," Lucius added.

_I__ would __have __saved__ you, __too, __you __fool_, Severus wanted to say. "No," is what he said.

"Do you realise," asked Lucius, still looking into the fireplace, "that both of my children have more respect for you than they do for me?"

_How __odd_. Lucius—Lucius goddamn Abraxas Malfoy—was jealous of him. Once again Severus found himself completely blindsided by the turn the conversation had taken.

"Have you ever wanted kids, Severus?"

_Yes_.

After a moment, Severus managed to say it: "Yes," and congratulated himself for achieving such a neutral tone.

"When you don't have children, it's easy to imagine what being a father is like. You picture the scene as one of familial love: boundless pleasure and joy, pride in your offspring. But the truth is, which no-one ever tells you, that the essential paternal sentiment is panic. It starts the moment they're born—when that tiny, fragile body is placed in your arms and you can't help but imagine all the ways something could go wrong. You see tragedy and danger in simple acts, such as walking across a room, or flying a broomstick, that previously had been mundane or fun. In your mind's eye you can see the consequences of a slip, or a fall; a slight miscalculation that leaves your child maimed, scarred, dead—or even just disappointed in you."

Lucius paused and took a deep swallow of his drink.

"I really fucked up, Severus."

* * *

><p>If anything, the first day of Lucius' trial was even more crowded that Draco's had been. Once again, Jocelyn was seated in the front row in her "Mudblood Pride" t-shirt, although Severus noticed, with a start, that she wasn't alone. Granger and Potter were both sporting similar shirts, as were a number of the Muggle-born students who had spent the last year in Bulgaria. Even Hooch, he noticed as he slipped into a seat beside her, was wearing a "Mudblood Pride" badge.<p>

"Good morning, Severus," said Poppy warmly from Hooch's other side.

"You should get yourself a badge," remarked Hooch.

"Absolutely not. I used that word once and I never intend to do so again."

"I could charm it for you so that it read 'Half-Blood Prince,' if you prefer," offered Hooch blandly.

Severus glared at her.

"What do you think of Lucius Malfoy's chances?" asked Poppy, changing the subject adroitly but spoiling the effect slightly when she couldn't help the corner of her mouth twitching up in response to Hooch's teasing comment.

Severus shrugged. "Kaleisha invoked a law that protects him from being tried for the same crime twice, so anything he did or didn't do during VWI is now off the record. They may try charging him with perjury, though. Since he spent most of VWII under virtual house arrest at Malfoy Manor, he may well scrape through."

"They're charging him with material and political support of a terrorist organisation?" asked Poppy.

"Yes," confirmed Severus. "And willingly becoming a member of said organisation."

"I know he's your friend, Severus," commented Hooch, her arms crossed, "but I've never liked him."

Severus was saved from having to answer by the arrival of the defendant. Since the Ministry had—at long last—stopped employing Dementors, Lucius was brought in by two prison guards who led him to the accused's chair and stood by while golden chains wrapped themselves tightly around his arms. One of the guards stepped forward briefly, and relayed some message to Kaleisha Shacklebolt, then the guards moved away to stand back in the far corners of the room and Lucius was left alone in the centre of the floor.

"Good morning," proclaimed Kaleisha loudly. Though she wasn't using the Sonorous Charm, her voice projected clearly even up to the higher levels of the courtroom. "I hereby open the Second Special Session of the British Wizengamot's Investigation into Warcrimes and Related Transgressions (W.A.R.T.). The day is Tuesday, the 20th of May, the time is nine-oh-three a.m. Before we begin today's proceedings, the accused, Lucius Abraxas Malfoy, has requested permission to address the court."

At her words, a murmur of conversation welled up. She held up a hand for silence.

"Mr Malfoy?" she prompted, gesturing towards him politely.

"Thank you, High Inquisitor Shacklebolt, for allowing me this opportunity," began Lucius. Though the few weeks that had passed since Voldemort's defeat had allowed the bruises and contusions that marred Lucius' face to heal, his hair was a far cry from the glossy coif with which he would normally address such a crowd. He wore a set of silver robes that were close enough to grey to suggest Azkaban to the discerning observer, yet still cut to suggest his fabulous wealth and flatter his figure. "It would be pointless and dishonest for me to deny that I was once sympathetic to the political goals of Lord Voldemort and his supporters. My arrogance and my pride in the long and decorated history of the Malfoy line led me astray.

"During the first war, a naive political enthusiasm and my misplaced faith in the superiority of so-called pure blood exposed me to situations where I was asked to participate in actions that I found repugnant; those who refused were placed under the Imperius Curse and left to battle forever with the memories of their actions and the guilt they inspired."

Beside Severus, Hooch snorted. "I notice he carefully avoided the claim that he'd actually been Imperiused," she muttered. When Severus shot her a quick glance, she added, "I may have been a Hufflepuff, but I've spent enough time around Slytherins to pay attention to what they actually say."

"Shush!" hushed Poppy, patting Hooch's knee reprovingly.

Hooch placed her hand over the other woman's and obligingly held her tongue.

"When Voldemort returned to power, my situation had changed: I had been marked by him, and thus was controlled by him. No matter where or how far away I might have run, he would have tracked me down. My life was irrevocably subject to his."

Lucius had everyone's attention, though it was impossible to tell how many thought his account of events convincing, how many were dubious. Severus found himself staring at the back of Jocelyn's head and wondering what expression she wore.

"And it wasn't just about me anymore. Lord Voldemort threatened my wife and my son; he threatened my family. While I was imprisoned in Azkaban, he moved into my house. He kept prisoners in my cellar and tortured them on my living room floor. By the time I returned home, I had no option but to comply with his wishes. I took the punishments he handed down in the hope that my wife would escape unscathed. He took my wand, and my wife was forced to give hers to our son when his, too, was taken. Once Draco returned to school, we lived as prisoners in our own home. We had no magic and no way to protect ourselves.

"It was the most horrific period of my entire life, and not just because the man I thought would rescue me from Muggles had practically reduced me to one."

The man was a superlative orator. While Lucius spoke it was easy to forget that he was chained to the chair, or that the crowd had gathered to see him punished rather than solely to hear him speak.

"That young woman there, in the garish political t-shirt, is my daughter. A daughter that I never knew existed, one who was brought up by Muggles. Only because Severus Snape was committed to saving the children under his care from political policies that I, myself, had helped to draft, did I even meet her. That is the irony of this situation—that I, who would have sacrificed everything for my family, almost destroyed part of my family in the process. That horror—successfully averted—is one that I must live with for the rest of my life."

Lucius was, Severus realised, winning. With the exception of Hooch's scowling visage, many of the faces around him were softening in sympathy. He couldn't help but be impressed by the convincing tissue of half-truths and blatant omissions Lucius was weaving and by the expression of contrition on Lucius' handsome face. The trial would play out, as anticipated, over several days, but Severus was willing to bet right now that the man would wiggle free once again.

"Despite everything else that has happened," continued Lucius, "both of my beautiful children are still alive. Not everyone has been so lucky. I want to apologise to every family that has been torn apart by the actions of Voldemort's faction at the Ministry. I am extraordinarily sorry for any part that I might have played—however peripherally or inadvertently—in the enactment of anti-Muggle-born legislation.

"It took my thirteen-year-old daughter to convince me of the folly of my beliefs, but believe me when I say that I would not knowingly do anything that might hurt or limit her in any way. And if I can change, so can the rest of the wizarding world—this, my friends, is my hope for the future."

As Lucius finally came to an end, bowing his head slightly in a gesture intended to signal his remorse, many members of the assembled crowd applauded. Severus wasn't sure whether he was relieved or infuriated, and the odd mixture of emotions that warred within his breast left him deeply unsettled.

* * *

><p>(cough, review?)<p> 


	4. Chapter 3: Schoolwork

_Phoenix Fire (or, Hermione Granger and the Elder Wand)_, Chapter Three: Schoolwork.

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters that populate this story are the property of the incomparably talented and infinitely generous J.K. Rowling. I am thankful to Ms. Rowling for her stories, and for her admirable open mindedness on the subject of fanfiction.

I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

My deep thanks, once again, to Ari. Who read this with sharp and thoughtful vision. The mistakes that remain are entirely my own.

* * *

><p>Hermione dreamed of the kiss she'd shared with Ron: she relived the insistent press of his mouth against hers—his longing, his loneliness. She felt his desperation and a desire to cleave into wholeness against her. His hand was in her hair, his thumb against the solid bones of her face, and she wanted to heal him, to possess him, to kiss away all of his pain. She thought, perhaps, that if she kissed him hard enough, if she held him tightly enough, she might manage to communicate the fierceness of her desire; that he might recognise the truth of her love. She wanted them both to let go of the overwhelming anxieties that marked their day-to-day life and sink into this moment, to savour it, to relax and stretch and indulge. In her dream, their lips broke apart to snatch a breath. Chests heaving with exertion, foreheads pressed together, they stared at each other in the dim light of the landing. His dark eyes met hers without blinking, and as her breath caught in her throat, he tilted his head incrementally, so that the bridge of his big nose slipped from where it rested on hers and bumped into her cheek. His eyelids dropped, without closing completely, and once more—gently this time—he pressed his lips against hers, holding her gaze throughout. Her knees went weak, and if he hadn't had his arms wrapped so carefully around her, Hermione would have fallen.<p>

She woke with a start. It took her a moment to realise where she was, to identify the looming ceiling as that of Ron's attic bedroom and to be sure that the lanky body wrapped, limpet-like around hers was indeed Ron—as attested by the soft, familiar snores emanating from the region behind her ear. Her heart was pounding painfully and her breathing came in great gasps that she struggled to get back under control; she really didn't want to wake Ron.

In the dream, she'd been kissing Severus Snape.

Staring up at the ceiling in the dark, eyes wide with shock, Hermione tried to get a grip. _It __was __just __a__ dream,__ Granger_, she told herself firmly, but a treacherous inner voice added: _yeah, __and __one __you__'__ve __thought __about __waking __often __enough._

_It's just a crush. Having a crush on your teacher is perfectly healthy, as long as you acknowledge it for what it is: a crush, nothing more._

Hermione had heard her only cousin, Liza, an academic, wax lyrical on the subject several times, and she forced herself to concentrate on the memory of Liza's words, resolutely pulling her attention away from the memory of the dream.

"_. . . it's all about the Erotics of Pedagogy. It happens to everyone who loves learning: at one point or another, they confuse their love for the subject with love for the teacher. In a way, it can be necessary. The teacher is the one who breathes life into the subject, just as the student opens themselves to new things. The new knowledge can seem to remake the person, to remake their intellectual landscape. And to do that, the student has to make him or herself intellectually vulnerable, they have to be willing to use the knowledge that they learn—the pieces of the teacher that they cannibalise—to recreate themselves. It all happens internally, sure, but it's an intensely physical process. The brain is part of the body, after all._

"_The thing is, it's not really about sex—although it can be an intensely sexual attraction; it's about the desire for a mind fuck, not for a real fuck."_

Liza had even published an article on the topic and Hermione resolved to seek it out as soon as she had a chance.

_A crush. A student-teacher crush, that's all._

Yet intellectualising the problem hadn't really brought the equanimity she was hoping for; she still felt guilty.

She loved Ron, right?

_Right._ Of course she did, she always had. He was her best friend, after all. Loving him was as familiar to her as breathing.

And he was cute. Gorgeous, really.

Hermione thought about his long, clean limbs and his goofy, slightly crooked smile, his broad chest and the way that his belly button stuck out rather than in. He was eighteen now, an adult by Muggle accounts as well as by wizarding rules, and he looked it. The last year had worn away the edges of the teenager and left behind a young man, still boyish, but firm and balanced in ways he hadn't been before.

Physically, he was much more beautiful that Snape—_No._ She wasn't going to think about Snape's body, not even for purposes of comparison. She was thinking about Ron.

And last night, she'd definitely wanted to sleep with him. In fact the idea of sex had been exactly the antidote she craved to the long day of remembering Fred and thinking about death. Sex, or at least the idea of it, had set her heart racing, had made her aware of her body; she had felt alive and conscious of being so. She'd wanted the pleasure, and the desperation, and the odd mix of generous vulnerability and selfish grasping that the sheer physicality of the act entailed.

_Was __that __selfish __of __me?_ she wondered suddenly, interpellated once again by the mortification she'd felt the previous evening as Ron was falling asleep.

Had she wanted to have sex purely for selfish reasons? Did she want to use that act as a means of forgetting Fred? _No__ wonder __Ron__ didn__'__t __want__ to! __What __kind __of __woman __tries __to__ get __her __boyfriend __to __have __sex __on __the __evening __of __his __brother__'__s __funeral?_

Hermione was more confused than ever. The only thing she felt certain of was her hope that Ron wouldn't try to take her up on last night's offer when he woke: there was nothing she felt less disposed to than sex right now. Not when she couldn't seem to disassociate the idea from Snape and Fred and death and guilt.

Hermione found Ron's hand where it lay flush against her ribcage, and placed her own hand over it, threading her fingers down between his. As the sky outside Ron's room lightened gradually from black, through grey, pink and apricot, and on into pale blue, Hermione stared up, unseeingly, at the increasingly visible Quidditch players who lined the walls and ceiling of Ron's room. Try as she might, she couldn't get things to make sense.

* * *

><p>Hermione need not have worried that Ron would be in the mood for morning sex. Just before waking he sighed gently and nuzzled his nose into the back of her neck. The movement was just enough for her to notice the undeniable evidence that his genitalia was in full working order, for as he moved, he pressed it against her; it was also just enough to bring Ron to an awareness of his surroundings, and as he woke fully, he jerked away.<p>

Hermione barely had time to blink before Ron was out of the bed, standing slightly crouched in a rather ineffectual attempt to hide the evidence of his early morning hard on.

"'Morning," he gasped in a strangled voice, groping for his dressing gown with one hand while he stared, wide-eyed, at the woman in his bed.

"Wait! Ron—"

"Have to rush to the bathroom!"

With that, he was gone, the belt of his dressing gown flapping behind him before the door closed with a bang. Hermione had risen up onto one elbow as she called out to him to stay, but after he disappeared, she flopped backwards. She wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry and settled finally on a deep sigh. She thought about hanging around to try and talk to Ron once he'd got back from the bathroom, but she couldn't muster much enthusiasm for the task: frankly, the idea of post-wank Ron being calmer and more reasonable was laughable.

Instead, Hermione gathered up her clothes and snuck down the staircase back into Ginny's room. Miraculously, she managed it without any of Ron's many brothers catching her in the act, though she knew better than to think she could hide her location from Ginny.

Indeed, the younger girl rolled over as the door clicked shut and graced Hermione with a knowing smirk.

"Not a word from you!" Hermione whispered threateningly. "Nothing happened, I swear it."

Ginny raised an eyebrow to match her smirk and looked rather disbelieving.

Hermione turned her back on Ginny with a shake of her head and slipped under the covers of the twin bed; she wondered whether she could squeeze in an extra hour of sleep before breakfast.

Hermione made her way down to breakfast a good hour and a half later. When she entered the kitchen, Ron, who was already seated behind a huge pile of breakfast, caught her eye and blushed bright red. He gave her a slightly panicked smile and then ducked his head to shove an enormous forkful of mushrooms into his mouth.

Hermione tried to squash a spark of irritation. _Couldn__'__t__ he __at __least __be __more __subtle? _Any more behaviour like that and he'd have the entire weight of the Weasley clan teasing him and breathing down their necks. A quick glance around the table, however, suggested that Ron's brothers might actually be too hungover to notice much.

"Sit down, Hermione!" urged Molly, bustling over and adding another plate of eggs to the table.

Obediently, Hermione slipped into an empty chair between Harry and Ginny. Harry gave her a perfunctory smile, but seemed rather glum. Ginny, Hermione noticed, was staring rather fixedly in front and had her lips set in a grim line.

_Oh,__ dear_, she thought, hurriedly pulling a platter of food towards her and serving herself.

"This looks fabulous, Molly!" she enthused, desperate to fill the awkward silence at her end of the table.

"Thank you, Hermione." Molly paused on her way past to pat Hermione's shoulder.

"Mum?" Ron sounded odd, and when Hermione glanced up at him she realised he was speaking around a mouthful of mushrooms that he managed to swallow only with some difficulty. "What did you do to these mushrooms?"

Molly bristled visibly. "They're exactly the same as I always do them, Ronald. If you don't like—"

"No!" he interrupted her hurriedly. "They're fabulous. Utterly amazing. They're the best mushrooms I have ever, ever eaten!"

"Oh!" replied his mollified mother. "It's quite an easy recipe, dear. Just butter, garlic, salt, some parsley."

Ron took another mouthful and chewed it reverently. "Can you show me?" he asked thickly.

"I, well, of course!" Molly sounded flattered, as if none of her children had asked her anything similar, and indeed, the conversation had penetrated the alcohol-induced disinterest of the other Weasleys, who were staring at Ron in surprise.

"It's just," added Ron enthusiastically, punctuating his explanation with a swallow, "that if I'm ever stuck camping ever again, I really, really want to be able to eat mushrooms like this!"

It was Harry who laughed first, but soon everyone was giggling, howling and rocking back and forth as tears of mirth rolled down their face; Charlie laughed while holding his head and moaning, "No, no, no." Hermione smiled, and even Ginny snorted, laughing despite herself.

After breakfast, the entire Weasley family plus Harry and Hermione Apparated off to Hogwarts for yet another day repairing the castle. Many of those who had fought in the Final Battle were still living there; Neville and his Grandmother had staunchly attested that they had no intention of leaving until everything was set to rights, and Hermione assumed that many of the others had similar plans.

She herself hadn't joined the work gangs until after Snape was pronounced fit by Poppy Pomfrey, but the boys had been there most days. They were frequently interrupted by Aurors and various Ministry officials: it seemed there was an endless litany of questions to which urgent answers were required, and with the first trials fast approaching, Harry, Ron and she had been happy to help whenever necessary.

That particular morning, after lining up in the Great Hall to receive orders, Hermione was assigned to repair the corridor outside the headmaster's—or, more properly now, the headmistress's—office, along with Ron, Harry, and a couple of younger Hufflepuff students, twins girls called Dora and Nora. The Hufflepuffs were so awed by their company that Hermione gave up trying to engage them in conversation after half an hour of fruitless effort.

The repairs themselves were heavy going. The second floor corridor had suffered extensive damage to the windows and much of the stonework. While some panes of glass were merely fractured and could be easily repaired, others had fragmented beyond the point where the pieces could be reconstituted and the myriad shards of glass had to be carefully gathered together and banished. Pieces of heavy stone had to be levitated back into place and bound with tricky enchantments that were specific to the Hogwarts building. Only Hermione could consistently manage the binding spells, so she and the boys worked out a system whereby they levered and lifted, and she cast the binding charms. That left Dora and Nora sweeping up glass.

It was hot, sweaty work, and within the first hour, Harry, Ron and Hermione stripped off the old work robes that Molly had provided. Forty-five minutes later, Ron went a step further, cutting off the legs of his jeans with a Severing Charm to turn them into shorts. He did a serviceable job, even if the shorts were fractionally shorter than he might have liked, and shorter than Harry thought appropriate. Harry erupted into peals of laughter, to which a fiercely blushing Ronald Weasley retaliated with a patented Weasley Weggie Charm. Within minutes, the two boys were wrestling on the floor—thankfully, Hermione noticed with an indulgent roll of her eyes, in the section that had already been cleared of glass shards.

Nora and Dora's giggles only encouraged the boys to even greater heights of macho posturing, and when the gargoyle stepped unexpectedly to one side, letting Headmistress McGonagall and Viktor Krum through into the hallway, Harry was squealing rather loudly.

Hermione was fairly certain that she spied the hint of a dimple as McGonagall cleared her throat in an intimidatingly professorial manner. Harry and Ron scrambled shamefacedly to their feet.

"I'm glad to see you all devoting your time to the urgent work of repairing the castle," commented McGonagall dryly, raising an eyebrow at the boys, who shuffled their feet in a fair imitation of their younger selves. "Since you're all here, let me take the opportunity to introduce our newest Trasfiguration teacher, Professor Krum."

Hermione spun towards Viktor, a surprised grin splitting her face. Viktor looked as if he couldn't believe his good fortune, simultaneously dazed and excited.

"Viktor! Wow!" exclaimed Hermione, reaching out to grip his arm approvingly. "Congratulations! What fantastic news!"

The other students made similar, if more restrained noises of congratulation.

"Thank you," replied Viktor, grinning back at Hermione. "I haff never been so much honoured before."

"Well, deservedly so!" Hermione assured him. "You'll make a brilliant teacher."

Harry shouldered his way past Ron and stuck out his hand. "Congratulations, Krum," he said.

Ron was quick to follow suit, and, nervously, Nora and Dora stepped forward and shook hands with their newest professor.

"On another note, Potter," remarked McGonagall, "I'm pleased to have run into you. I had an owl this morning from Andromeda Black who is hoping to get a chance to speak with you at lunch. Something to do with your orphaned godson, I understand."

Harry blanched. "Oh, very good, Professor," he mumbled awkwardly. "Thank you for letting me know."

Ron was watching him out of the corner of his eye and he reached out and punched his best friend lightly on the arm. "I'll come, too," he said cheerily. "I love kids."

"Right, okay." Harry looked a little reassured by Ron's willing support; Hermione felt a small pang of love for both of them—Ron in his too short shorts and Harry, once again worrying about the consequences of war, only minutes after the most relaxed bout of playing she'd seen from him in years.

"Actually, Miss Granger," said McGonagall, interrupting her thoughts, "if you had a moment, I would like to have a word."

"Certainly, Professor."

Hermione waved goodbye to the boys, smiled at Dora and Nora, and patted Viktor on the arm in farewell, then she followed the headmistress back past the gargoyle and tramped up the stone stairs, which weren't yet moving magically. As always, she felt a prickle of nervousness related to entering a teacher's office, and when she took her seat opposite McGonagall's desk, she wiped the palms of her hands down the front of her jeans. She was rather relieved to see that Dumbledore's portrait appeared to be sleeping, as the memory of her last—rather impolite—words in his direction was fresh in her mind.

"Tea?" asked McGonagall as she took her place in the high-backed headmistress' chair.

"Yes, please," replied Hermione, taking the chance to glance around the room.

In the week or so since her last visit, the decor of the room had changed rather dramatically. Though Snape, it seemed, had left Dumbledore's effects in place, McGonagall had taken steps to make the room her own. Gone were the spindly-legged tables and most of the odd metal instruments of Dumbledore's tenure. By the fire there was a new, rather plush looking daybed, and tartan curtains had been hung over each of the room's several windows.

"Now, then, Hermione," said McGonagall as she passed Hermione a cup of tea and offered her a shortbread from a tin. "I wanted to speak with you about your education next year."

"Oh," replied Hermione and allowed herself to relax into her chair more fully; so she wasn't in trouble.

"As you've no doubt surmised, our intake for the coming academic year is in some disarray. Some students completed most of the school year—with teachers of varying standards—but no-one sat the exams. Other students were withdrawn from school at odd points during the year; some didn't attend at all. The current plan is to offer two sets of examinations, one, in the first week of school, the other, in the last. That way, any student who is qualified can progress to the appropriate level, and for those who need to repeat a year, the teachers will have an accurate record of exactly which areas need particular attention."

_Exams__ in __the __first __week __of __school?_ It wasn't exactly panic that thrummed through Hermione, but a new energy caused her to sit up straighter once again, and the back part of her brain started on the question of revision. _Of __course, __for __NEWTs__ it__'__s __not__ just __about __exams, __but __also __the __independent __projects __. __. __._

"Now," continued McGonagall, "it is my expectation that you, Hermione, will be more than capable of passing a number of your written and practical NEWTs, and it may also be possible to count some of the work you have already done towards the required individual projects. In fact, after Griselda Marchbanks read Rita Skeeter's account of your last year, I had several owls from her assuring me that the destruction of an Horcrux is more than sufficient to qualify for the Defence Against the Dark Arts requirement."

McGonagall paused to grace Hermione with a tight smile; she was, Hermione realised, proud of her.

"I also understand that Professor Vector regards the Arithmancy equations that you showed us more than a year ago in this very office as more than satisfactory, and I believe Professor Babbling to be rather impressed with your translation of the _Tales __of __Beadle__ the __Bard_. I would suggest you find the time to talk with your other teachers about any other extracurricular work that might fulfill a similar purpose."

"Thank you, Professor. I will do that." Hermione crunched almost absentmindedly into her shortbread, her mind racing with possibilities.

"NEWT-level students who pass the exams but haven't finished a suitable project will have the academic year to do so. While they won't have scheduled classes, they will be expected to meet regularly with their professor. Now, Hermione, while I don't imagine that you will pass all your NEWTs without your final year of schooling, I do anticipate you will pass enough to free up your schedule somewhat. You may wish to use that time to take extra classes—depending on what you plan to do once you leave school, this might be a good chance to do an extra NEWT or two."

How well her Head of House knew her! Hermione found herself nodding along in agreement. "That would be wonderful!" she exclaimed. "I'd been hoping to add Care of Magical Creatures back into my schedule; perhaps now I could add Muggle Studies, too. At this point, I guess I mostly want to keep my options open."

"Excellent." Minerva took a sip of her tea and then placed the cup rather firmly back on its saucer. "There was one more thing I wanted to mention."

Hermione forced herself to put her own cup back on the table and braced herself. From McGonagall's manner it was clear she wasn't about to earn an award for Special Services to the School.

"It will be in your interest to ensure you pass your Transfiguration NEWT at the start of the academic year." Minerva pursed her lips and peered at Hermione over the top of her half-moon spectacles. "No matter how chaste your youthful romance with the new Transfiguration professor, the fact is that Rita Skeeter wrote about it once, and won't hesitate to do so again. It would be better for you, and for Hogwarts, if you can avoid the scandal of sitting in his class."

As McGonagall spoke, Hermione tried to repress her rising blush with willpower alone. She failed. "Absolutely, Professor," she muttered hurriedly, "I will do whatever is necessary to make sure I avoid that situation." Her face, she could tell, was a fiery red.

McGonagall observed her discomfort with a raised eyebrow and a hint of the dimple Hermione had noticed earlier. "Indeed," she remarked, stressing the second syllable.

Giving her modesty up as a lost cause, Hermione pulled an embarrassed face and dropped her head into her hands.

Unexpectedly, McGonagall chuckled. "Since I'm sure we both agree that . . . private lessons between you and Professor Krum should be avoided at all costs, let me assure you that I am very willing to answer questions or offer feedback on any revision you undertake during the summer holidays."

Hermione looked up from the palms of her own hands and gazed across the desk at her professor with real gratitude. "Thank you very much," she said. "I would really appreciate it."

"Furthermore, Hermione," continued McGonagall, picking up her teacup once again and holding it poised in midair, one little finger held stiffly away from the cup, "it would be my pleasure to supervise your independent Transfiguration project; from a conversation we had once, I thought you might be interested in attempting an animagus transformation."

Hermione's eyes were wide with delight. "I would _love_ that!" she exclaimed excitedly. "But will a year be long enough? I know it took Harry's father almost four years—"

"Hermione," interrupted McGonagall firmly. "It took four underage wizards,"—she pronounced the word 'wizard' as if their gender was a handicap—"with no assistance, and nothing like your talent for Transfiguration four years?"

_My __talent?_ Hermione had always done well in Transfiguration, but beyond an approving nod and the occasional "Well done," McGonagall had never intimated that she was anything other than capable, and she felt a funny breathlessness at such direct praise.

"I don't anticipate any problems," finished McGonagall, sipping her tea to punctuate her statement.

"Thank you, Professor. I, I don't know what to say . . ." Hermione couldn't put into words the little bubble of happiness that pressed out from beneath her breastbone. "I would really, really like to work with you next year."

McGonagall responded with a tight smile, holding her tea up in a toasting gesture before taking another mouthful. "I, too," she remarked, "am looking forward to it."

* * *

><p>The next few weeks passed in a flurry of activity. Hermione split her time between Hogwarts, where she laboured to fix the building, the Burrow, where she slept and ate, and the Ministry, where she watched the trials of the Malfoy family; she studied in her spare time.<p>

At Hogwarts, McGonagall had lots of willing helpers, and seemed confident that the repairs could be finished in time for the school year, while the Weasleys were slowly knitting themselves back together, reintegrating Percy back into the family and trying to deal with the hole where Fred had once been. They were simultaneously throwing themselves into work—Arthur and Percy were often at the Ministry at all hours of the day, Molly had been invited and then convinced to join the Wizengamot and had been deeply involved with the set up of the Death Eater trials, and everyone else had devoted hours to the Hogwarts repairs—yet also finding the time to spend together. Meals had become important family events and they all seemed to operate in groups rather than singly; no Weasley wanted to be alone when they could be together.

Ron, to everyone's surprise, had held to his plan of learning to cook. Each morning he could be found assisting Molly, and he had promised Hermione a delicious celebratory dinner once she got back from Australia.

And Australia was starting to weigh on her mind. Hermione felt nervous and jittery and had trouble concentrating the closer it got to the day of their departure. Kingsley had organised an international Portkey for her and Snape, and they planned to leave the day after the Malfoy trials came to an end, or after two weeks, whichever was sooner. Kingsley had promised that if necessary, the trials could be delayed until their return.

As it turned out, a delay wasn't necessary: Draco's trial took only a day, Lucius' just over a week, and Narcissa's barely an afternoon. While Hermione had been pleased that Draco and Narcissa got off with good behaviour bonds, and ambivalent about the four years of community service to which Lucius had been sentenced (there was a small and rather vindictive part of her that couldn't help wishing he been permanently incarcerated), what really stood out about the process was the participation of Kaleisha Shacklebolt.

Hermione was more than impressed by the woman, by her first in ethics and political science at Oxford, and her law degree from Harvard University. She had never met anyone who melded the wizarding and Muggle world so well—no wonder Kingsley had been able to pass in the Prime Minister's office; it also explained the ultra-modernist decor of the London house the two siblings shared.

Clearly Kaleisha had been thinking about reform and the British Ministry of Magic for a long time because she had moved very quickly to curtail the executive powers of the Minister and to make the Wizengamot more independent of the salaried Ministry Officials. She had also instigated clear rules and procedures for trials and prosecutions. She was, thought Hermione, an inspiration, and her example gave her a lot to think about in terms of potential careers.

The other brilliant aspect of the Malfoy trials was Jocelyn's t-shirts. By the end of the week, most of the observers in the courtroom had been wearing "Mudblood Pride" shirts or badges. Hermione was shocked to discover that Jocelyn was, in fact, Lucius' daughter—although once armed with that information, it was an easy matter to spot the similarities between her narrow face and Draco's—but she was thrilled by Jocelyn's attitude. To be honest, she thought Jocelyn might be the best thing that ever happened to Lucius Malfoy.

The morning of her departure, Hermione rose early. She dressed in Muggle clothes—according to the brochure the Ministry had supplied, the wizarding community in Australia was small, and took more care to blend in among Muggles—and tucked her beaded bag safely into the pocket of her jacket. Mostly, it contained books for her NEWT revision.

"Hey," whispered Ginny, sleepily.

"Hey. Sorry, I was trying not to wake you."

"Don't be silly, come here and give me a hug."

Hermione crossed the room and leant over to embrace Ginny, who had raised herself on one arm.

"Good luck, okay?"

"Thanks, Gin. You, too."

"Me? Whaddo I need luck for?" asked Ginny, her voice heavy with sleep.

"Um, Harry?"

She snorted loudly. "Yeah, I'll let you know how that one goes. When he starts treating me like a human being and not like a cardboard cut out of a person, we might be onto something."

"He really loves you, you know."

"Go on, get going before you're late." Ginny waved towards the door and yawned. "We'll talk about it once you get back."

"Okay, thanks for everything, Ginny."

"Hmmm." The girl was fast asleep again before Hermione made it to the door.

Molly was already up, and when Hermione entered the kitchen, there was a steaming cup of coffee waiting for her on the table. Molly was busy at the stove making breakfast.

"Thanks, Molly," she said gratefully, her hand reaching for the warm cup almost instinctively.

Moments later, someone thundered down the stairs and Ron burst through the door in a pair of stripy orange pyjama pants and a purple t-shirt that clashed dreadfully. His hair was tousled from sleep.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, addressing himself to his mother's back. "I was going to do that." Walking up behind her he threaded his arms around her waist and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

"Out of it!" she snapped reprovingly, slapping at his hand as he took advantage of his position to snaffle a piece of bacon from the pan, but when they both turned around, Hermione could see her pleasure at Ron's words and actions in the smile that she gave him.

By the time Ron wandered back to the dinner table and sank down in the chair opposite Hermione, Harry—who had managed to throw on some jeans and shoes before he came downstairs—made an appearance.

"Hey, Hermione," he said. "Any more of that coffee?"

Molly sent a pot of coffee winging towards the table with a wave of her wand, and Ron Summoned a couple of mugs so enthusiastically that he caught them only with difficulty.

"Oops!" he commented.

"Nice one, keeper," said Harry, holding up the coffee pot to pour for them both.

"You guys didn't need to get up," said Hermione, terribly grateful that they had. She was so nervous that her stomach hurt.

"Now she tells us!" teased Ron, rolling his eyes.

"Of course we did," replied Harry seriously. "I wish were coming with you. The least we can do is see you to the Portkey station."

Hermione smiled at both of them and forced herself to eat as much of Molly's delicious omelette as she could stomach. All too soon, it was time to leave.

"I hope you're not planning to go like that, Ronald," scolded Molly with a disparaging glance at his pyjamas.

"'Course not!" he replied staunchly, turning towards Hermione with his arms held outstretched from his body. "My brilliant girlfriend is going to transfigure them for me."

Hermione laughed almost despite herself, and Harry grinned even as he shook his head. Drawing her wand, Hermione transfigured Ron's outfit into a handsome set of purple robes complete with a hood and fancy golden tassels.

"Er, the tassels are a little much, don't you think?" He pulled at one that hung from his elbow and made a face.

"It's exactly what you deserve, Ronald," smirked Molly, pulling Hermione towards her in a one-armed hug. "Good luck with everything, okay?"

Hermione nodded, suddenly speechless once again. She and the boys trouped out into the back yard, and within seconds, they Apparated away.

Hermione had never been to the Faris Spavin International Portkey Arrivals and Departures Hub before and was surprised to find that they had to take a completely separate lift at the far side of the lobby.

"Yeah," said Ron, who took so much of the Ministry for granted, "that's because this lift goes up whereas the others go down."

"But isn't the Department of Magical Transportation on the fourth floor?" asked Hermione.

"That's where they do the paperwork, not where you get the Portkeys."

The Hub itself was located on the roof of the building, and one whole wall was open to the elements. There was room for a number of brooms to land and a rack of Cleansweeps that could be hired by wizards and witches who needed to fly somewhere under their own steam. The Portkeys were located at the other end: shiny silver rings, about the size of a hubcap but far more beautiful, they each sat on a pedestal so that passengers could congregate around them and hold on at the correct time.

"I thought Portkeys were ordinary, boring objects, like old boots and drink cans," commented Harry.

"Nah, mate, that's just when they're going to be left outside and there's a chance a Muggle might find one," explained Ron. "When we went to Egypt we took one like this."

Snape was waiting for her on the far side of the room. He, too, was dressed in Muggle clothes—dark jeans, a t-shirt and a ratty leather jacket similar to the clothes he'd worn when he turned up at her parents' house the previous year. Since they were heading into a Melbourne winter, he'd completed the ensemble with a thin cotton scarf that was draped several times around his neck and hung to just above his waist. Leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest and a thick scowl plastered across his face, he looked like a James-Dean rebel. Hermione wouldn't have been surprised to see a cigarette hanging out of one corner of his mouth.

The sight of him froze her in place; she felt instantly stressed and worried and terribly, terribly anxious. Ron must have felt her stiffen, for he wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close. She buried her face in his chest and breathed in a deep, shaky lungful of his smell: her lovely, wonderful boyfriend. Who smelled like summer grass. Who liked to cook. Who made her laugh. Who loved his mother and wanted to take it slow. She wanted to cement the smell of him in her memory.

"It's okay," he whispered in her ear, rubbing her back with one of his big hands. "You'll find your parents and everything will be fine. And when you get back, me and Harry will be big, bad Aurors and we'll all go back to Hogwarts and everything will be perfect. Okay?"

She laughed weakly, reassured by his nonsensical recitation.

A bland, authoritative female voice echoed through the room, interrupting them: "Would all passengers for the five-oh-nine Portkey to Melbourne, Australia, please make their way to pedestal three for an on-time departure."

Ron tilted her face up towards his and pressed his lips gently and chastely onto hers. "Good luck, sweetheart," he murmured.

Hermione turned towards Harry next, and he, too, folded her into a hug. "Take care of yourself, okay?"

Hermione nodded. With a deep breath and a "here-I-go" grimace, she stepped away from her two best friends and walked towards pedestal three. Snape was already there, along with a business wizard in a suit and two middle aged witches wearing hideous, completely eccentric Muggle coats.

"Miss Granger," said Professor Snape curtly, looking over her shoulder at the boys.

Hermione turned to get a last glimpse of them. Ron looked ridiculous in his purple robes and golden tassels; both boys lifted a hand in farewell. Waving goodbye, she turned back to the Portkey and to Snape's sneer.

_Why did he call me "Miss"?_

"Would all passengers for the five-oh-nine Portkey to Melbourne, Australia, please take a firm hold of the Portkey at this time."

Hermione reached out and wrapped her hand around the smooth metal ring. Snape stood opposite her, and she focussed on the long line of metal teeth on the zip of his jacket. She thought she might cry.

"The five-oh-nine London to Melbourne will depart in approximately five seconds. Three. Two. One."

There was a brilliant flash of blue light, and Hermione was spun away, pulled by the sharp tug behind her navel.

* * *

><p>AN: Here it is, my friends! And guess what? (1) In RL, this horrible semester is ALMOST OVER and (2) In fantasy land, Snape and Granger have just headed off to wildest Australia all on their lonesomes! What will happen next? Tune in next week, and find out!

ps. I love ALL your reviews. I've been too frantic with schoolwork of my own to respond, but I hope to redeem myself once the end-of-semester is itself at end. Wish me luck . . .


	5. Chapter 4: Family Matters

_Phoenix Flame (or, Hermione Granger and the Elder Wand)_, chapter four: Family Matters

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters that populate this story are the property of the incomparably talented and infinitely generous J.K. Rowling. I am thankful to Ms. Rowling for her stories, and for her admirable open mindedness on the subject of fanfiction.

I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

My deepest thanks to Annie Talbot, who generously beta read this chapter at the last minute, in order that it might post before Christmas. It is a real joy to have such wonderful and talented friends!

* * *

><p>There was a blinding flash of blue light and a sharp jerk behind Severus' navel spun him out and away from the Faris Spavin International Portkey Arrivals and Departures Hub. A long ten minutes later, his feet touched against solid ground. The experience left him feeling slightly queasy, and the bright light of the room in which they'd landed forced him to squint.<p>

"The two-twenty-one from London has arrived on time," boomed a loud, unmistakably antipodean, male voice. "Would all passengers please stand back from the Portkey and make their way to the customs desk? Thank you."

Severus stepped back as directed, and glanced around. The Tullamarine Airport Portkey Terminal was located in an enormous glass dome that gave 360-degree views of their surrounds. From what he could see, the dome was situated on top of a more traditional airport building, and a number of aeroplanes were taking off and landing in fairly close proximity. The customs desk was placed just off centre in the circular room and stood beside a silver metal elevator. A few lengths of red-velvet rope indicated the place where travellers were expected to wait.

Sneering at the two middle-aged witches who were looking around in some excitement and pointing out perfectly obvious features of the room and environs in place of a rational conversation, Snape waited for Granger to step around from the far side of the Portkey. As soon as she was within arms reach, he spun away and strode towards the counter; he missed the billow of his robes.

They made it to the queue before the two biddies did, and the business wizard before them was through the process very quickly. Only moments later, Severus stepped up to the counter, Granger close behind him. He tried to ignore the tingling sensations her proximity gave him.

"Welcome to Australia, your wand please." The customs official was closer to eighty than seventy, but still looked spry. He was dressed in an Australian Customs and Border Protection uniform with the words "Magical Division" embroidered in luminous letters over the insignia on his breast pocket.

Severus handed over his wand without a word, and the customs officer placed it on a set of tiny scales. A thin strip of parchment emerged from the base of the machine and Severus read the words, "Severus Tobias Snape, Professor. Ebony, dragon heartstring, 14 3/4 inches [37.465 cm], Ollivander," beside a small image of his face and that of the British flag. The customs official held the strip of paper up at eye level to better compare the picture against his face.

"Very good, Professor Snape," he commented, handing back the wand and dropping the strip of parchment through a thin slot in the surface of his desk. "There is a Ministry person here to meet you." Turning towards Granger and smiling in welcome, he added, "And you must be Hermione Granger!"

"Correct," she replied, holding out her wand. It was different from all of the wands he'd previously seen her with, and Severus looked at it curiously. It was made of a very pale wood and was carved beautifully around the handle.

"Let's see, then," remarked the customs officer, placing Granger's wand on his set of scales. "Hermione Granger, Miss," he read aloud. "Whomping Willow, gryphon feather, eleven-and-a-half inches, Ollivander. My! What an interesting wand!"

_An interesting wand, indeed._ Severus looked from the wand to Granger, who seemed rather keen to get her new wand back; he hadn't realised that Ollivander even made gryphon-feather wands.

"Er, thanks," she responded. "Are you done with it?"

The customs official handed it back reluctantly. "Gryphon-feather wands are extraordinarily rare!" he exclaimed.

"Yes, I know." Granger gave him a small, polite smile and tucked her wand back into her sleeve and out of sight.

"Right, then," responded the official, all business once again. He tucked the strip identifying Granger and her wand into the slot on his desk with a practiced flourish. "As I said before, there's someone here to meet you." He gestured over his shoulder towards the far curve of the glass walls. "Just step that way."

Granger shot Severus an apprehensive glance, and walked in the direction the official had indicated. Once past the end of the desk, a red velvet couch came into view. Seated on the couch was a thin, young man—a boy, really—in a cheap, ill-fitting suit; he was nervously pulling on one of the sparse hairs that sprouted from a small patch of beard located just under his mouth. When he saw Granger and Severus staring at him, he snapped to attention, leaping to his feet to reveal almost seven feet of thin adolescent. His shirt collar was at least a size too big for his skinny neck, and his tie was too long.

"P-p-p-professor Snape!" he stuttered. "And Miss Gr-r-r-anger!"

_Please, no,_ thought Severus. _I don't deserve this._

Their as-yet-nameless Ministry escort tried to shake hands, but the manoeuvre required him to switch a folder of documents from one hand to the other and in doing so, he almost dropped them. Foolishly, Severus allowed himself to catch Granger's eye, and he saw her laughter bubble dangerously close to the surface.

"I'm Lionel, Lionel Lightfoot," remarked their interlocutor without stuttering, although there were so many similar consonants in the phrase that it managed to invoke his affliction all the same. By the time he got his hand free, the moment had passed and it hung awkwardly in the air until Granger took pity on him and shook it.

Snape just raised one eyebrow and left his own hands where they were.

"Well, er, I w-w-work for the Australian M-ministry of M-magic in the D-department of International Co-operation."

"Let me guess," interrupted Severus, unwilling and possibly incapable of listening to the boy make it through to the end of his planned speech. "You've been sent to welcome us, congratulate us on having defeated Lord Voldemort and send us on our way?"

"I, er, yes, well and y-your M-minister Kingsley Shacklehorn—"

"Shacklebolt," corrected Granger firmly. "Kingsley Shacklebolt."

"Oh, er," Lionel, Lionel Lightfoot seemed thrown by his mistake and it took him a few moments to regain his thread. "And, er, he said th-that you would be trying to track down a pair of M-muggles . . . I took the liberty, er, of, um, f-f-f-finding their address for you."

Attuned, as always, to Granger's movements, Severus sensed her sudden stillness, and then watched her hands clench and unclench nervously.

"Thank you," he remarked smoothly, holding out his hand.

Lionel juggled his folder, coming close to spilling the contents all over the floor, and eventually extracted a sheet of parchment bearing the names, "Wendell and Monica Wilkins," and a Melbourne address.

"I w-would be h-happy to take you th-there—"

"We prefer to make our own way." Snape had no hesitation in speaking for Granger, too.

"R-r-r-right." Lionel was fishing in his folder once again, his face creased with anxiety. "This c-card will allow you to r-r-rent a Ministry-sponsored car from Avis—I assume you can dr-dr-drive?"

"Yes," responded Severus as Granger said, "No."

She turned towards him, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. Severus quirked an eyebrow of his own at her startled expression before reminding himself that he was trying to put some distance between them and turning his gaze back to the unfortunate Lionel; poor Lionel had to bear the brunt of a full scowl.

Severus took the plastic card—marked down one side with a magnetic stripe and branded on the other with the name of the car rental company—and stared down at it. He let Lionel's ridiculously drawn-out explanation of where to find the rental company and how to navigate the Melbourne freeway system drift past without paying much attention. When the dratted man stuttered to a halt, he even managed to repress his sigh of relief. He wasn't, though, prepared to wait around as Lionel pressed his c-c-card on G-g-granger; instead, he swept off towards the exit. Granger caught him up just as he cleared the ostentatious glass doors.

"Really, Professor!" she expostulated. "He was being rather helpful!"

The humour that underlaid her voice tugged at his heartstrings, reminding him of the long days of his convalescence and the pleasant banter they'd indulged in.

_But that was before she was my student again._

Severus wasn't sure whether he wished those halcyon days had never happened or whether they were among the most precious moments of his life; all he knew was that the memory of them ached. Three days of her near constant presence had been long enough for Severus to construct a daydream of near epic proportions, long enough to begin to take her evident pleasure in his company at face value, long enough to catalogue every expression as it fluttered across her face and to realise that her smiles could be felt in the very marrow of his being; he craved them like a drug.

As the lift doors closed shut behind them, Granger turned towards him, her arms crossed under her breasts.

"Seriously," she remarked, continuing the conversation, "he went to the trouble of finding their address for us—"

"Granger," interrupted Snape, despising himself for participating in the conversation and regretting the lack of professional distance that the honorific, "Miss," might have enforced. "In the time it took him to convey the information, we could have availed ourselves of a telephone directory and obtained it for ourselves."

Granger huffed out a breath of air and shook her head, but Severus caught the tiny upward quirk of her lips and his treacherous heart leapt. He had to get a grip. He had come to protect her and to help her. That was all. He couldn't afford to let his guard slip.

* * *

><p>Renting a car turned out to be straightforward. The agent swiped the plastic card Lionel Lightfoot had given them, took a photocopy of Severus' licence, and then chivvied them out to where the car sat in the lot and wandered around it marking incomprehensible signs on a sheet of carbon paper. Within fifteen minutes, Severus sat behind the wheel. He adjusted the rear view mirrors and the position of the driver's seat; he pulled out of the car park and drove away. Though he hadn't driven in years, the precise moment when the clutch engaged was as familiar as the back of his hand, and the movements of the gear stick were still buried in his bodily memory.<p>

As the car hit the speed limit on the freeway, the buildings of the airport dropped away, leaving broad fields in their place. Granger slipped off her shoes and lifted her feet onto her seat. She wrapped her arms around her shins and placed her chin on her knees. Her socks were striped in wide bands of green and blue; Severus tried not to notice and concentrated on the traffic.

It was ten minutes before either of them spoke.

"I'm nervous," she confessed.

"Pull out the map," he replied, "and check where we have to go once we get closer to the city."

Her Muggle upbringing meant that Granger had no difficulty navigating her way around the street directory, which was emblazoned with the word "Melways" in large letters.

"When the freeway ends we go straight ahead onto Flemington Road, then right at Curzon Street, left at King Street, and follow that along until it becomes another freeway on the other side of the city centre."

The act of checking the directions had returned a measure of control to Granger's voice, and Severus thought it safe to address the original issue.

"When we find your parents," he commented, eyes flicking once towards her face and then back to the road, "it would be best to wait until they are both seated before you speak the trigger phrase. As you should recall from our own Occlumency exercises, the process of retrieving submerged memories will bring them before the mind's eye in extraordinary sensory detail; they may well feel overwhelmed."

Granger swallowed heavily. "Will it hurt them?"

"The release of memories itself won't hurt, but they will re-experience every emotion that they have ever had about you, as if for the first time: love, pride, happiness, disappointment, pain, betrayal. Obviously, this will all happen at the speed of recollection, but it will take some time."

"How long?" There was a slight shake in Granger's voice.

Severus shrugged. "Eighteen years worth of memories is a great deal to remember in one sitting; I imagine it might take half an hour or so."

The car continued to hum along the freeway. To the right, a red wall resolved into a row of disjunct poles as they swept past, and a giant yellow beam loomed over the road. Minutes later, Severus navigated his way from the end of the freeway onto Flemington Road.

There was a brief spattering of rain at one point, though it didn't last long, and was followed by some wintry sunlight and an expanse of blue sky.

As he drove, the silence between Severus and his travelling companion stretched slightly longer than was comfortable. Granger continued to stare out the far window, her face turned resolutely away. After awhile, Severus took the opportunity afforded by a red light to fiddle with the radio. The house in East Malvern was a good forty-five minutes further driving, and he needed something to distract his thoughts.

(line break)

Boston Ave was lined with trees and sported a row of Californian bungalow houses—careful variants of the same basic form, yet old enough that they'd aged with distinct personalities. At number eighteen, someone had replaced the manicured lawn and border of decorative flowers with an expanse of tanbark and clusters of Australian native flora. There was a red station wagon parked in the drive.

Severus did a U-turn and parked outside the house. Granger sat without moving and stared at the house. Her hands were clenched into tight fists.

"What if it's the wrong address?" she asked.

"Then we'll try elsewhere."

"What if we can't find them?"

"You certainly won't find them if you can't get out of the car." Severus conjured a clipboard and opened his own door. By the time he'd walked around to the curb, Granger was on her feet. She wiped the palms of her hands nervously on her jeans.

"Brava," he remarked dryly.

From the driveway, a short path led to a porch with a deep concrete balustrade. The front door had two leaves, each covered by a screen; there was a faded white plastic doorbell on the frame at the left hand side. Severus pressed the button, and he and Granger heard the electronic chime sound down the hall.

Within seconds they heard the clatter of claws pounding down the hallway and the outraged bark of a small dog, closely followed by human-sounding footsteps.

"Enough!" They heard an authoritative female voice—unquestionably that of Dr Susan Granger—through the front door. "Sit!"

Seconds later, the front door swung open, though the security screen made it impossible to see inside.

"Hello, can I help you?"

Granger's mother was polite and distant. There was no hint of recognition in her voice. Severus paused for a moment, thinking Granger might speak, but she looked stricken.

"Good afternoon," he responded smoothly. "My name is Severus Snape, this is Hermione Granger. We were given your address by the British Embassy—we're doing a survey on the importance of the political process back home from the perspective of ex-pat citizens. Would you mind if we came in a took a few moments of your time?"

"What a pleasure to hear a familiar accent! Did you say 'Hermione'?"

The woman leant closer to the screen, her silhouette looming over the tiny perforations of the screen door. Granger nodded mutely, her eyes clearly straining to make out some detail of her mother's face.

"How funny! Our dog's called Hermione—I've always loved that name." With a click, Susan Granger opened the screen door. It swung outwards, and Granger was forced to take a step backwards. "Come on in, I do hope you like dogs."

The dog in question was a long-haired dachshund, and she wriggled and shook in utter glee once the visitors stepped inside. She was wagging her tail so hard that her whole back end gyrated.

"You must be Dr Monica Wilkins," commented Severus politely to Granger's mother, holding out his hand.

"Indeed I am," she replied warmly, shaking his hand. Gesturing to a door on the right, she showed them into a small sitting room with a window looking back out over the native shrubs of the front yard. "Have a seat," she urged them. "I'll just go and find Wendell; he's out the back." Hermione—the dog—trotted eagerly after her as she disappeared back into the hall.

The room held two couches on opposite sides, separated by a low table, and an upright piano against the back wall. The floor was old pine boards, polished to a deep honey colour; the walls were a muted burgundy. In the ceiling, the decorative plaster moulding was marred by an ugly florescent light fixture. As directed, Severus and Granger sat, folding themselves awkwardly into the larger of the two couches. They sat in silence, listening to Susan call "Wendell" in from outside and, as she put the kettle on, explain why the visitors were there.

"The girl is called Hermione! Can you believe that? The man had an unusual name, too—I've forgotten it, though, so make sure you introduce yourself while I'm listening. Here, take this plate of bikkies . . ."

Granger stiffened as her father's footsteps could be heard approaching the sitting room door. He was proceeded into the room by a foot of fluffy dog, so intent on the plate of food her master was carrying that she walked with her head twisted back over her shoulder. The dog leapt up on the couch beside Granger and crawled onto her lap, only to stand balanced on the far end of Granger's knees, her attention fixed on the coffee table before her.

"Oops, sorry about that!" exclaimed the man who once knew himself as Terry Granger. "Let me just grab squirmy Hermy from you!"

He placed a plate of chocolate biscuits in the centre of the table and lifted the dog from Granger's lap. From the look on her face, Severus would have bet money that "Squirmy Hermy" was something her father had once called her.

"I hear your name is also Hermione," continued Terry in a friendly voice. "Such a lovely name—I hope you're not offended that our dog is called the same thing! It's always been one of our favourites."

Granger managed a smile that only barely managed to hide her distress. Terry seemed to think she was offended.

"I'm Severus Snape," commented Severus, standing politely and extending his hand.

"Wendell Wilkins," replied Terry. "Pleasure to meet you; do sit down. Would you like a Tim Tam?"

Severus had no idea what a "Tim Tam" was, but from the way Terry brandished the plate of biscuits, the meaning was clear.

"Thank you," he responded, taking one politely. Susan Granger bustled in at that point, a tea tray in hand, and pressed a cup and saucer onto him. He balanced the biscuit on the edge of his saucer and placed it carefully on the table.

"Well then," remarked Susan once the niceties of milk and sugar were exhausted, "what was it you wanted to know for your survey?"

Severus turned towards Granger. "Perhaps, Miss Granger," he said smoothly, "it would be best if you began?"

Granger nodded, her jaw tight. "I . . ." she began, breaking off to take a deep breath before beginning over. "I am the daughter you always wanted," she said, all in a rush.

As she spoke, the expressions of polite interest on the faces of the Granger-Wilkins shifted into puzzled surprise and then crumbled into outright distress. It was lucky that neither of them held their tea cups, for they would have dropped them.

Terry's mouth was open and he stared blankly at the young woman who was his daughter, evidently intent on the memories and visions running through his mind. Susan, for her part, lunged across the table, clutching Granger tightly by the upper arms. Her legs thudded into the coffee table, knocking over her own cup and splashing liquid over the edges of several others. Severus had his wand out and Banished the spilt tea before it could burn anyone.

"Hermione!" gasped Susan. Her eyes were fixed on Hermione's face, and most of her bodyweight rested on her daughter. She was clearly struggling to maintain her present vision of Hermione as she processed the wave of remembered memories.

Standing, Severus managed to take her shoulders and manoeuvre her onto the couch beside Granger; her grip on the young woman didn't falter.

The dog, sensitive to the distress of her owners, put her front paws on Terry's chest and nuzzled at his face. He pulled her into his arms and lowered his head against her russet fur. Hermione-the-dog tried once to wriggle free, but gave it up as a lost cause and applied herself, instead, to the task of licking Terry's ear. His eyes were pressed closed and he seemed to find some comfort in the proximity of the animal.

Both Granger and her mother were crying: silent tears ran down their cheeks.

"Snape?" inquired Granger brokenly, without moving her gaze from her mother's face. "Are they okay?"

"Just give them time," he replied. The words came out slightly brusquer than he'd intended, but Granger seemed reassured. Severus sat himself in the seat Susan had vacated and Summoned his tea and biscuit from the opposite corner of the coffee table. He felt like an intruder in a particularly intimate moment and tried to bury his discomfort in his cup of tea.

It was more than twenty minutes later that someone other than Severus moved: Susan Granger took a deep shuddering breath and let go of Hermione's shoulders only long enough to move her hands to her daughter's face. She patted her ears, her cheeks, felt her hair—it was as if she needed to check she was really there.

Terry stirred moments later, running his sleeve roughly down his face and then getting to his feet.

"Come on, Hermy," he instructed as he stood and walked out of the room. Obediently, the dog followed.

Granger wrenched her eyes from her mother's face to watch him leave, then turned her worried eyes to Severus' face. From the hallway, Severus heard Terry blow his nose loudly. Within a minute, he returned to the sitting room, a bottle of Scotch and four glasses in hand.

"I don't know about you," Terry announced to the room as a whole, "but I could do with something a little stronger."

His hand shook only slightly as he poured four generous measures of whisky and passed them out.

"Sit here," said Hermione. She and her mother scooted over so that Terry could join them on the couch.

He sat so close to Hermione that she was wedged between the bodies of her parents. His free arm went round her back, and his hand managed to squeeze part of her upper arm and part of Susan's shoulder on Hermione's far side. Severus wondered if they would ever let go ever again.

Susan's body was pressed close against Hermione's other side, her free hand held Hermione's tightly. But her eyes were fixed on Severus and she raised her glass of alcohol towards him.

"To family," she said.

"To family," echoed Terry.

Granger was still crying too much to say anything, but she raised her glass, too, and all three Grangers toasted to him. Severus couldn't believe that they meant to mock him, but that didn't mean he understood. He'd wanted to be there, wanted to be there for Granger in case she needed him, but he felt like he didn't belong.

It was a troubled and heartsick Snape who swallowed a mouthful of his own whisky.

* * *

><p>Once everyone had calmed down enough to engage in conversation, Granger's parents wanted to know everything that had happened in the year they had lost. Granger, unsurprisingly, had prepared for such an eventuality and pulled her beaded bag from the inside pocket of her jacket. Inserting her arm inside up to the shoulder, she extricated a copy of the <em>Daily Prophet<em> in which Rita had published the most complete version of events.

Susan took it eagerly. She read like her daughter did: quickly, and with a slight furrow between her brows. Terry read over her shoulder, though gave up when Susan reached the end of the page quite some time before he did.

"Just say when," she commented, her polite tone of voice belied by the impatient way that she fiddled with the corner of the page and the frequency with which her eyes travelled from those of her husband to the section of page he was reading.

"Go ahead," he replied, waving a hand in a practiced gesture. "I'll read it once you're done."

Susan had started with the article on Potter and she read it through rapidly. When she got to the end, she frowned, and flipped back to the start. A moment later, she spoke.

"So, where's this wand now?" she asked.

"Brava, Dr Granger," replied Snape, impressed that she—like him—had seen the problem immediately. "We've placed it somewhere safe, for the time being. Eventually, we hope to destroy it."

"At least someone has some sense," she commented dryly, folding the paper back towards the front and setting in on the article about Snape. Knowing that she was reading it with him sitting right there made him uncomfortable, but thankfully she made no comment, merely passing the paper across to her husband as soon as she'd finished.

"You'll stay here, of course," she noted in a tone that brooked no argument. "The couch folds out and we have a spare room." Rising to her feet, she moved towards the door. "I'm going to check on the state of the pantry; I'm thinking perhaps dinner on Lygon Street?"

Terry—the only person present likely to know what or where Lygon Street was—hummed noncommittally from where he sat reading. Susan didn't seem to need an answer, however, and she held the door open for the dog to follow after her and left the room.

Once she was gone, the room felt unnaturally quiet. Severus felt Granger's eyes on his face, and looked up to meet her gaze.

"Thank you," she mouthed silently.

* * *

><p>AN: Here it is, my friends! Wishing you the happiest of Kwanzaas/Hanukkahs/Christmasses. xoxo


	6. Chapter 5: Ink

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter Five: Ink

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

AN: I want to FIRSTLY apologise for the time between this chapter and the last. I have been very busy, as has my beta. This in fact, brings me to my SECOND apology, for this chapter hasn't been beta'd at all. I'm posting it only because I want to remind everyone that I'm still here. Please forgive all the errors that you find.

So, without any further ado . . .

* * *

><p>"You know who he reminds me of?"<p>

They were walking down the St Kilda Esplanade, the sea to their right, palm trees reaching for the sky on either side, and cakes from Acland St swinging in a bag.

"No, who?" responded Hermione absently. She and her mother had fallen back from the two men, and Snape, her father and the dog—now, by unspoken accord, officially "Hermy"—were some way ahead.

"That friend of yours, Viktor."

"What?" Hermione tore her eyes from the wintry, grey expanse of Port Phillip Bay and stared at her mother in surprise.

"Come on, Hermione! You know exactly what I'm talking about."

Embarrassment curdled Hermione's stomach, and her heart beat loudly in her ears. She hadn't been that obvious about her crush . . . had she?

"Professor Snape," she replied, emphasising his title, "is my teacher; I can't say I've thought about him much in any other category."

"Nonsense." Susan had her arm tucked into Hermione's and took the opportunity to squeeze her elbow companionably. "All girls look at their teachers—particularly those who are also war heroes."

Hermione stared out over the water again, trying to pretend her mother wasn't saying such mortifying things and hoping against hope that Snape and her father couldn't hear their conversation.

"I have to say," continued Susan, dropping her voice and leaning towards Hermione's ear, "I think Severus is a much better catch than Viktor. He's smarter, funnier. More confident."

A completely disproportionate bubble of anger roiled inside Hermione's chest, and she pulled her arm sharply out of her mother's grip.

"Don't be ridiculous, Mother!" she hissed. "I refuse to continue this conversation." Without a backward glance, she hurried forwards to catch up with her father and Snape.

At the sound of her approaching footfalls, Terry looked back and smiled. He reached out an arm and pulled her close against his shoulder. Since the restoration of their memories the day before, neither of Hermione's parents could get enough physical contact. Much the same thing could be said about Hermione: she'd spent the previous night in their bed, sleeping between them like she had as a young girl troubled by bad dreams.

"Hey there, sweetheart." Her father pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "We were thinking about getting out of this wind for a while and having a cup of coffee. There's a place up here with an awning where we can sit with Hermy."

In the face of her father's unruffled good humour, Hermione's anger at her mother faded quickly. Lately she seemed to rush through life on an emotional roller coaster.

Fifteen minutes later, they were ensconced in a warm courtyard under a gas brazier and a canvas umbrella, coffees in their hands. Hermy was perched on Terry's lap, and Susan was exchanging pleasantries about dogs with the waiter.

"It's funny, you know," she said thoughtfully after the waiter left, "that we called our dog after our absent daughter. I didn't remember anything about her, but I had a terrible sense of loss and anxiety."

"We thought it was homesickness," added Terry, nodding.

Hermione lifted her glass to her lips and took a careful mouthful of foam; the coffee itself was still too hot to drink.

"The human brain," responded Snape, "stores the sights and sounds of memory differently from the way it stores emotional responses. Emotions are associated with particular memories, but not inextricably so. Responses to certain memories can change over time; they can grow stronger or fade, they might change dramatically. No doubt," he continued, addressing himself to Hermione's parents, "you are familiar with the basic concept of repressed memories?"

The Grangers nodded.

"When the brain 'forgets' memories that are too traumatic for it to deal with?" interpolated Terry.

"Precisely." Snape nodded. The calm way that he was speaking reminded Hermione of the private lessons in which he'd taught her Legilimency. "Though the traumatic images themselves are hidden from the survivor, the emotions associated with them persist. They can surface in odd, disruptive ways such that the survivor feels that something is wrong, without being able to put their finger on what exactly the problem is."

"That's fascinating," commented Susan. "So, are you implying that a wizard could cure a Muggle with repressed memories by going inside their mind and unleashing their memories?"

"It's not quite so simple." Snape sipped at his espresso and placed the cup back carefully onto his saucer. "Firstly, for a Muggle, the very act of a witch or wizard entering their mind would—in itself—be traumatic, and secondly, they would re-experience the traumatic incident as the memory was released. Far better that the survivor work through the process of psychotherapy and learn to deal with the memory as they gradually uncover it for themselves."

"What about witches and wizards who have traumatic experiences, then?" asked Terry. "Do they ever suffer from repressed memories? Or is that a purely Muggle way of dealing with things?"

"They do," answered Hermione. "And it can be even more dangerous."

"Yes," confirmed Snape. "For a witch or wizard, memories are material, palpable things: they can be extracted, shared, manipulated, stored. Interacting with the magical materiality of memories requires magic, thus the act of repressing the memories also represses magic. Just as the emotions associated with repressed memories can disrupt the equilibrium of the Muggle survivor, the potent combination of emotions and suppressed magical energy can erupt within the magical survivor. The consequences can be dangerous—even deadly—for the survivor and for those around them."

Hermione's mother looked pensive. "So—" she began, breaking off momentarily to chew on her lower lip. "All those awful things that happened to wizards and witches during the war, how are they going to deal with them?"

All three sets of Granger eyes were focussed on Snape, curious to hear his response; he sighed and finished his coffee before answering.

"Most people will deal with it through mood swings, depression and nightmares—as they would any other trauma. Not all wizards and witches have the mental control to manipulate their own memories—a practice we call Occlumency—or those of others—what we call Legilimency. Only those with Occlumentic skill are at any risk of repressing their memories; hopefully they will be aware enough of their actions to avoid doing so."

Susan's eyes flickered between Snape and Hermione. "You both have those skills, don't you?" she asked quietly.

They both nodded.

"Of course you do, or you wouldn't have been able to modify our memories." Susan gave a forced smile. "Just . . . just take care of yourselves? Okay?"

Hermione reached out over the wooden cafe table and took her mother's hand.

"I promise," she whispered. She had to fight against the prickle of tears. "I promise," she repeated.

* * *

><p>Later that night, Hermione got ready for bed in her parents' spare room. She had little desire to sleep alone, but felt funny about spending another night tucked between her parents. As she climbed between the sheets and pulled the quilt up to her chin, Hermione rehearsed one of the easier Occlumency exercises, attempting to clear her mind.<p>

She found it much more difficult than normal. Fragments of recollection ricocheted across her mind's eye: her mother's concerned face, the conversation she'd first had with Jocelyn about blocking, the way her father's eyes crinkled up at the corners when he smiled—all mixed up with other, less pleasant memories—Fenrir Greyback stroking a dirty fingernail down her face, Snape's blood pooling on the floor of the Shrieking Shack, flashes of light and explosions in the chaos of battle, Bellatrix laughing.

_I am calm_, she repeated ineffectually. Hermione couldn't help wondering what Snape was doing on the opposite side of the hallway, whether he was sleeping or still awake.

_And don't think about Snape_, she added to herself.

It took Hermione a long time to get to sleep, and when she did, her dreams were troubled. It started out as shimmers of odd images and a vague feeling of apprehension, but soon she was lying on the thick carpet of Malfoy Manor, writhing under the boundless agony of Bellatrix's crucio. She could see the dull shine on Bellatrix's patent leather boots, the long pointed toe and viciously high heels. She could hear the werewolf's slathering breaths, feel his hands on her leg.

"NO!" Hermione screamed for all she was worth, kicking out at her attacker and twisting against the ropes that held her captive.

Someone had their arm around her shoulders and she fought desperately to be free.

She felt the toe of Bellatrix's boot kick into her ribs and heard her snarl, "**And I think, we can dispose of the Mudblood. Greyback, take her if you want her.**"

"Wake up, Granger. You're having a nightmare."

"NO!" Hermione got one hand free and she scrabbled against the body that restrained her; her fingernails clawed down bare skin.

"Granger! Wake up!"

The authoritative words penetrated the fog of her dream and Hermione flinched awake. Snape had one arm around her shoulders, the other was held up to shield her eyes from the blaze of golden light that lit the room. Her body was soaked in sweat and twisted so tightly into the sheets that she couldn't move her limbs.

"All right?" Snape's voice was curt, but not unkind.

Hermione nodded, speechless. Her heart thudded in her ears.

Snape lowered the hand that had shielded her eyes and grabbed a handful of her sheets. Lifting her bodyweight slightly with his other arm, he pulled them loose from her body. Hermione noticed he was shirtless, and his wand lay beside her as if he'd dropped it in order to grab her.

"Hermione? Sweetheart?" The worried faces of her parents appeared in the open doorway.

"I just . . . just a nightmare," she managed to reply. The moment her parents had appeared, Snape let go of her and stepped away from her bed.

Within seconds, her parents were fussing by her pillow, stroking the damp hair from her sweaty forehead and rubbing comfortingly at her calf.

"Everything's okay now sweetheart," crooned her mother. "You can have a shower and a nice cup of hot milk and everything's going to be just fine."

But Hermione didn't feel fine, she felt bereft.

At the doorway, Snape turned and looked back. "A hot chocolate would be far more effective than hot milk," he stated. His voice was emotionless. Dressed in nothing but a pair of grey cotton pyjama pants and with his wand held loosely in his hand, he looked incredibly tall against the doorframe. His dark hair hung over his eyes; his expression was unreadable. His pale skin glowed in the golden light he'd used to illuminate the room.

Then he was gone.

Tired, confused and still shaking from the nightmare-induced adrenalin, Hermione allowed her head to be drawn down onto her mother's bosom and wept. Ten minutes later, her parents bundled her into the bathroom with a clean set of pyjamas, promising that they wouldn't wait up for her, but that they would leave a cup of hot cocoa for her once she was done.

The shower helped. Hermione took her time rinsing the dried sweat from her body and the memory of the nightmare from her head. She even washed her hair, plaiting it so that it would be moderately controllable come morning. Clean, dry, and dressed, Hermione tucked her wand into the pocket of her pyjamas, chucked the earlier pair and her wet towel into the laundry basket and found the promised cocoa on the dining table where her parents had left it—still warm.

She took some comfort in the feel of the warm cup under her fingers and she cradled the mug against her chest as she turned off the lights at the back of the house and padded down the hallway towards her room.

Snape's light was still on: a thin blade of yellow cut across the hallway from the gap under his door.

Hermione froze at the sight, her lower lip between her teeth and her cocoa wrapped in both hands. After a long moment, she took a deep breath and stepped forward. Gently—very, very gently, she knocked on his door.

He opened the door by hand, looking down at her without speaking for several seconds before jerking his head towards the interior of the room and stepping back from the door. Hermione stepped across the threshold after him and closed the door behind her. One of the two couches had been unfolded into a bed and it took up most of the floor space. Hermione sank down onto the piano bench, ignoring the other couch, which was too close to the end of the bed to sit on properly.

Snape, who had added a t-shirt to the ensemble he'd worn earlier, waved his wand at the sofa bed, which folded back in on itself, while the cushions levitated themselves back off the floor and into position.

"Sit," he directed, gesturing at the newly reformed couch. He himself sat on the couch opposite.

Feeling nervous and awkward, Hermione did as she was told, folding her legs up under her and wedging herself into the corner.

"I, er, wanted to say thank you, for before." She wasn't really sure what she wanted to say, she just knew that she wanted to say something.

Before he answered, an unreadable expression crossed his face. "You don't need to thank me, Granger. Another couple of minutes and your parents would have been there, anyway."

_Yes, but it was you I wanted._ Hermione bit down on that thought and stared down into her cocoa. She took a long mouthful and savoured the warmth and sweetness on her tongue.

"Sir?" she asked, trying in vain to inject a sense of neutrality back into a conversation she knew was charged with things she mustn't say. "Do you get nightmares?"

"Granger," he replied heavily. "After an experience like that of the last few years, nightmares are a healthy response."

"But how do you deal with them?"

Snape tilted his head back against the upholstery and stared at the moulded plaster of the ceiling with a bleak look on his face. "The dungeon I live in," he said finally, "has very thick walls."

Hermione felt overwhelmed by emotion; the heavy weight of it left her speechless. She wanted to cry. She wished she could throw herself on her professor and weep on his chest the way she had that morning on the beach near Shell Cottage. She wanted to feel his arms around her again. She wanted him to be shirtless. She wanted him to kiss her like he had with the Felix Felicis—simultaneously rough and tender.

With a shaking hand, she lifted her cup and drained the last of her cocoa.

"I should go," she said quickly. Without daring to look at him again, Hermione stood up and left the room.

In the spare bedroom, she climbed immediately into bed. She pushed the pillow up against the headboard and lay down with her face pressed into the mattress; she pulled the sheets and the quilt tightly around her shoulders.

_What the hell is wrong with me?_ she wondered. But she couldn't find a convincing answer.

* * *

><p>"Get up!"<p>

Someone—Snape—was banging loudly on her door. Hermione struggled out of bed and hurried over to pull it open.

"What is it?" she gasped, still disorientated from her sudden awakening.

"Get dressed," he ordered. "We're going for a run."

Hermione stared at him in surprise. She took in the fact that he was dressed in tracksuit pants, t-shirt and running shoes, then she nodded.

"Give me five minutes."

Good as her word, Hermione was soon ready to go. Snape set a very manageable pace and they set off north, jogging up her parent's street. The morning air had a real snap to it, and their breath condensed into small puffs of steam as it left their mouths.

"Where are we going?" she asked as they doglegged at the end of the road and joined a slightly busier thoroughfare.

"There and back."

"And how long will that take?" she asked, slightly exasperated.

"Long enough that your body will be tired and your mind empty."

They ran in silence for a few minutes, passing a Buddhist temple and a strip of shops before Hermione asked another question.

"Is this about the nightmares?"

"It will help, Granger. Trust me."

On reflection, she had to agree that he was right.

Rain or shine, Snape got Hermione up each morning for a run, and it did indeed help. The Occlumency exercises were easier to manage, and she went for the rest of the week without a nightmare. Gradually, too, her fitness improved, inching back up towards the level she'd been at before her torture at wandpoint.

Hermione and Snape spoke little on their runs—though occasionally he quizzed her on DADA NEWT questions, much as he had when they ran together during her sixth year. Still, the runs were oddly companionable despite their silence.

Snape was also obliging enough to give her the occasional DADA practical tutorial, for Hermione was determined to devote several hours to revision each day; she hadn't forgotten that she had to sit a NEWTs equivalence exam at the start of September.

On Saturday, Terry was scheduled to spend several hours with his golf partner, while Susan had a long-standing date with "the girls" to play Bridge. After much discussion, the Grangers senior had decided to stay in Melbourne permanently.

"After all," remarked Susan, "we always intended to retire to Australia, we just planned to do it in a few years time. Since we're here, we might as well stay."

They did, however, want to change their names back from Wendell and Monica Wilkins. Officially, this was an easy matter: Hermione merely reversed the charm on their passports. Since she'd used—unauthorised, of course—an official Ministry charm, the change would also be reflected everywhere they'd used their passports as identification, including customs and border control. Casually, however, things were a little more complicated, and Grangers senior eventually decided to run with a cover story constructed around a witness protection scheme—now no longer necessary—and a heinous crime that they couldn't actually talk about in any detail for legal reasons.

Hermione was a little sad that her parents would be living so far away, but after a long, drawn out phone call with her cousin Liza, her partner Carla, and their son Thom, plans were laid for a family Christmas at the house in London, so Hermione couldn't really complain.

Thus, while the Grangers met with the few real friends they'd made during their first year in their new home, and explained that they weren't who they'd claimed to be, Terry offered to drop Snape and Hermione at a bookshop in Brunswick Street—promising plenty of nearby coffee shops and restaurants and a wonderful collection of books. They readily agreed.

"And if there aren't enough books there to keep you two entertained, it's only a short tram trip to Readings on Lygon Street, where we went the first night you arrived," added Terry.

Susan made a spirited attempt to press the tram and train map on them for the return leg, but gave up—laughing—once Hermione pointed out that they could easily Apparate directly back into the house.

At the bookshop, Hermione abandoned Snape in front of a rack of international newspapers and drifted off towards the fiction shelves, though when she glanced back at him ten minutes or so later, she was surprised to see him staring rather fixedly out the front window. More curious than alarmed, per se, she walked over and followed the line of his gaze. What she saw was completely unexpected.

Snape was staring at the tattoo parlour across the road, and more specifically, at a large, elaborate piece of flash displayed in the window: a phoenix.

Hermione stepped a little closer to the window. "It looks remarkably like Fawkes," she said.

Snape hummed a non-committal response. His eyes were still fixed on the opposite window.

"Do you miss him?" persisted Hermione.

"Who? The bird?" Snape was surprised enough by the question that he looked down at her. When she nodded, he shrugged.

It wasn't exactly a "no," and Hermione couldn't help grinning to herself just a bit. For Snape, that was pretty much a "yes." He was still looking across at the tattoo parlour.

"Do you want a tattoo?" asked Hermione.

"I—no."

Snape was far too good of an Occlumens to be caught out in a lie, but there was something about the tempo of his response that left Hermione unconvinced. She narrowed her eyes and considered is face carefully. Her instinct told her that this, too, was a "yes."

"You should get one if you want one," she declared. "I think it's a great idea."

"I'm not getting a tattoo, Granger. Go back to your books." Snape turned away from the window and stalked back over to the periodical display. The conversation was clearly over. Hermione pulled a face at his retreating back and cast one last look at the phoenix image over the road. The bird's wings swept out wide, its tail feathers flared in counterpoint. She remembered, suddenly, the evening in the Hospital Wing—when Snape had sung her life back together and she'd called him a phoenix. It seemed a very long time ago.

Yet how right she'd been! This was a man who could sing flesh and bone back together. Who had been loyal to the light though all had doubted him. Who bore the heavy burden of Hogwarts on his own back. Who rose up from a puddle of his own blood and stepped into a new life. Hell, he could even fly.

Severus Snape represented everything that the Order stood for, and Fawkes seemed to know it, too—only a direct order had convinced the bird to stay behind in Scotland. Everywhere else, he accompanied Severus, sitting proudly on his shoulder. Little wonder the bird had been scarce during that last year when everybody—Harry most of all—could have used his particular gifts. The phoenix was a devoted companion and his presence at Snape's side would have given the game away at once.

Hermione returned to browse the shelves, as directed, but she sent frequent, almost contemplative glances after Snape. She knew that he would mock her if she tried to tell him yet again that he reminded her of a phoenix, so she kept silent. The conviction, though, seemed to fill her whole body, expanding outward from her chest to the tips of her fingers and the bottoms of her feet. It felt as if it were welling out from her pores, as if, were she to touch him, it would bleed through the barriers of their skin and he would know. Just to be safe, she kept her hands in her pockets and made sure to keep her distance all the way home.

* * *

><p>The next morning, after a short run with Snape, Hermione sat down to a breakfast of toast and muesli. All three of her breakfast companions were reading the paper, so Hermione Summoned from her bedroom one of the Transfiguration texts that Professor McGonagall had recommended and buried her nose in a remarkably interesting chapter about the application of third-degree Arithmantic derivations to modified inter-species Transfigurations. Only when Snape swore quietly did she look up.<p>

"Trouble in paradise?" inquired her mother, folding down the top of _The Age_ to peer over at him.

Snape met Hermione's gaze across the dinner table. He was scowling heavily, and the deep lines that ran from his nose to the sides of his mouth were more pronounced than they had been in weeks. Without a word, he lifted his paper and passed it across to Hermione.

_He must have found a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ at the bookshop yesterday_, she realised, recognising the font and layout.

"I'm sure you'll find Rita's article as delightful as ever," Snape remarked dryly.

Hermione scanned the article quickly, a panicky lump in the back of her throat:

_The Boy-Who-Lived-Twice had another scare this week when an unprovoked attack at the hands of a senior Auror almost took his life. Luckily for Harry Potter, his best friend, Ronald Weasley, was at hand to spring to his defence. Weasley—who rumour has it is romantically linked with the other member of the "Golden Trio," Hermione Granger, currently visiting her family overseas—was modest about his role in rescuing his friend, stating only, "Well, it's second nature to look out for Harry, innit?" No doubt the public are reassured to know that both young men look forward to a future together, where they can continue to keep each other—and the wizarding world—safe._

_Ministry officials refused to reveal the identity of the senior Auror concerned, though they were keen to stress that there is no suspicion of Death Eater involvement. An unnamed source, closely linked to the Minister of Magic, suggested to the _Prophet_ that the attack may have been motivated by the allure of the Elder Wand. Readers of this paper will recall that Harry Potter claimed possession of the Elder Wand—a supposedly unbeatable wand, also known as the Deathstick—during his successful duel with He Who Must Not Be Named._

_The Elder Wand—Myth or Reality? p. 12_

Hermione bit back an uncharacteristic urge to swear. "Well," she sighed instead, investing the word with as much feeling as possible, "there goes any hope that the general public might not realise the target Harry makes."

"Precisely," replied Snape. "If you're after more good news, the article on the ongoing Death Eater trials—back on page two—states that Umbridge has been let off with nothing more than a reprimand."

"WHAT?" asked Hermione aghast, flipping back through the _Prophet_ to find the page. "Why?"

"Apparently dear Dolores is a keen reader of Rita's column, too. From the interview Harry gave, Umbridge learnt that the locket she wore ceaselessly was, in fact, a Horcrux. In her defence she argued that she was unduly influence by Voldemort and shouldn't be held responsible for her actions."

The previously suppressed urge reasserted itself with even more force. "Fuck," exclaimed Hermione violently. She crumpled the newspaper unconsciously. "But she's evil!"

"Ah," sighed Snape sarcastically. "The perils of a fair legislature."

"We have to go back," said Hermione, realising the truth of the statement only as it left her mouth.

With a grim expression, Snape agreed. "There is, however," he added, "One thing that I want to do first."

* * *

><p>That very same afternoon, Snape headed back to Brunswick and stopped in at the tattoo shop, with Hermione close on his heels. The tattoo artist who ran the shop was called Arvo—because as he explained it, he never turned up to anything before midday. He was burly and bald, with every visible surface save his face covered in elaborate coloured markings. The lobes of his ears were stretched with hoops as big as a silver sickle and he had a piercing through his tongue as well. He called Snape "mate" as if he meant it.<p>

"That'll take four hours, all up. Most people would do it in two sessions, but sure, as long as you let me break for coffee and a ciggy a couple'a times, I'll do it in one shot. It's up to you, mate; depends how much of the needle you can take."

Snape wanted the large bird, exactly as shown in the window, precisely over the place where the Dark Mark had been. The raised wings followed the curve of his forearm around to the other side of his arm, and the long feathered tail curled around his wrist with a flourish.

"No colours," he insisted.

"Got that message loud and clear," replied the tattoo artist, winking at Hermione and wiggling an eyebrow towards Snape's black jeans, black leather jacket and grey t-shirt.

Hermione smothered a smile and sat down to watch. The design was transferred onto trace paper and then onto Snape's skin before the artist began to actually ink the image. Once he was bent to his task, he spoke only rarely—usually when he was wiping ink away and considering the next line.

"How're you feeling, there?" he asked at the midpoint.

"I've felt much worse," replied Snape calmly.

Every so often they were interrupted by the arrival and departure of a young woman around Hermione's age. Her hair was died black, and she wore a short black skirt, fishnets and big, black boots. Her eyes were rimmed by a thick border of dark eyeliner and, for some reason, she reminded Hermione strongly of Pansy Parkinson. Her job seemed to consist of little more than bringing coffees, biscotti and Portuguese custard tarts back from the adjacent cafe.

"It's a nice image, the phoenix," remarked Arvo as he put the finishing touches to the tattoo. "Symbolic, new life."

"Indeed," replied Snape.

To Hermione's surprise, he paid with a credit card. By the time they left the shop, dusk was falling. As they walked down a heavily stencilled laneway looking for a secluded place from which to Apparate home, Hermione had a silly urge to tuck her hand into the crook of Snape's arm. She pushed her hands deep into her pocket to ensure that she didn't.

"I feel a bit sad to be leaving," she said.

"The international wizarding post is excellent," replied Snape. "You'll be able to keep in contact with your parents easily."

"True," said Hermione, keeping her voice completely neutral. The distance from her parents wasn't exactly what she meant. Though she would never say as much to them and though she'd rather swallow Bubotuber puss than admit it to Snape, she was going to miss his constant presence at least as much as she would miss Susan and Terry. She knew how to deal with long absences from her family, but she wasn't sure that she knew how to deal with her thoroughly confused, completely inappropriate feelings for Snape.

* * *

><p>Do you know how much a review would mean to me? A LOT. :)<p>

Also, as a consolation prize for my long absence, I've posted an old one-shot of mine that used to be on OWL and now seems lost the interwebs. I hope you enjoy it! The story is called "Heartbeat" and can be found on my author page.


	7. Ch 6: Return of the HalfBlood Prince

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter Six: Return of the Half-Blood Prince

DISCLAIMER : The characters and many of the situations described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

Once again, this chapter has not been betad. Please forgive me! And forgive any mistakes. Thanks for each and every review-you make my heart sing!

* * *

><p>It is 10,500 miles from Melbourne to London, but by Portkey, the journey takes only 12 minutes: nowhere near long enough for Severus to recover from Susan Granger's farewell. It wasn't that she'd hugged him—her arms wrapped around his neck and her lips pressed briefly against his cheek—for since his recovery he'd been hugged by Poppy and Molly Weasley both, Hooch had fiercely gripped his hand while simultaneously thumping him on the back, and innumerable people had shaken his hand in congratulation or consolation. No, it was what she'd said: <em>"You're family now, Severus, after everything you've done for us. I hope you won't hesitate to ask if you need anything."<em> As his feet thudded into the floor of the Faris Spavin International Portkey Arrivals and Departures Hub, the word "family" continued to echo in his brain.

"Hermione!"

Three lanky boys leapt to their feet and crowded past the customs line without a thought for international protocol. To Severus' disgust, an official looked on indulgently as Harry Potter, the Boy Who Lived to Disregard Rules, his sidekick, Weasley, and that idiot, Longbottom, surged towards Granger with all the elegance of a herd of rampaging Hippogriffs.

"Harry!" Granger stumbled as she moved towards him, still unbalanced from the Portkey ride, and Potter reached out to grab her even as she threw her arms around him. "I'm so glad that you're okay!"

Their clench was awkward: one of Potter's arms was trapped under Granger's embrace, her face was pressed against the front of his robes, and her hair was all up in his face. Without letting go, Granger extended a hand to the Weasley boy and grabbed his hand too.

"You saved him!" she exclaimed.

"Always the tone of surprise!" he replied, blushing slightly and rolling back his eyes.

Severus could feel the scowl solidifying on his face; he would have to step past the happily reunited group of young war heroes in order to leave.

"Well, as soon as we get out of here I want to hear all about it." Granger had finally disentangled herself from Potter, but she'd kept hold of Weasley's hand. "Hey, Neville, I didn't expect to see you."

"Hey, Hermione, I hope you don't mind, Ron said—"

"Of course I don't mind! It's a pleasure to see you."

"Neville's doing the intensive Auror course, too," commented Ron, swinging out his free arm to punch his friend lightly on the shoulder.

"Wonderful," sneered Severus, interrupting Granger's more genuine response. "Another under-qualified Law Enforcement Official. Just what the Ministry needs."

Longbottom flushed a dark red, but he stood his ground. "Good morning, Professor," he said politely.

"Professor Snape," added Potter in greeting; Weasley said nothing.

Severus gave them all a disparaging look as he swept past.

"Professor!" Granger's voice called him back, and his body turned towards her of its own volition. "Thank you for everything," she told him. There was an odd, unreadable expression on her face and she clutched at Weasley's large freckled hand with both of hers.

He acknowledged her thanks with a fractional inclination of his head. "I live to serve, Miss Granger," he replied, his voice heavy with sarcasm. As Severus swept away, he drew his wand and transfigured his clothes into his customary black robes. In some situations, the billow was definitely called for.

Fragments of their conversation continued to impinge upon his consciousness as his wand was checked at the control desk—"Yeah, my gran was so proud of me that I decided to do it," "Oh, Harry, I'm just so glad you're okay!" "You won't believe Ron's treacle tart until you taste it! He really nailed it,"—but soon he was through, on into the elevator, and out through the atrium.

"_You're family now, Severus, after everything you've done for us. I hope you won't hesitate to ask if you need anything."_

He inhaled a deep breath of murky London air and ducked down a narrow alley.

_Well, then, what about the hand of your daughter and half your kingdom?_

Self-repugnance twisted Severus' face into an ugly expression. He couldn't Apparate away from his own guilt, and the shame of having desired his student in the house of her parents stayed with him as he rematerialised in the dingy sitting room of Spinner's End.

* * *

><p>Severus rattled around the empty house for most of the day, but by mid-afternoon he had abandoned any immediate plans to clean away the years of accumulated filth. Instead, he sat in one of the sitting room's ratty armchairs with his left sleeve rolled up and gently brushed the tips of his fingers over the raised, tender weals of his new tattoo.<p>

The decision, like so many of those that shaped his life, had been impulsive—but that, he knew, didn't necessarily mean that he would regret it.

A memory came to him, disconcertingly vivid, of Granger in his private lab, stubbornly insisting that he reminded her of a phoenix, and joking about how absurd he would look in Gryffindor-coloured robes. That was back before he'd killed Dumbledore, back when everything was as simple as spying on the Dark Lord and hoping that his own death, when it came, would be fast and relatively painless.

Severus almost laughed—less at the memory of Granger than at himself, for wanting to be the man she seemed to think he was. For marking himself, yet again. For finally getting the tattoo that his seventeen-year-old self had wanted so desperately. Somehow, he didn't think it had instantly catapulted him into coolness, as he had once imagined it might.

It had, however, covered over the rather dreadful blankness on his arm.

At first, the absence of the Dark Mark had been an unbelievable relief, but the habit of it wasn't lost so easily. Once before, the mark had disappeared only to return as painful and horrible as ever. This time, Severus had found himself checking his skin with a frequency bordering on obsession. The faint, barely perceptible outline of where the curse had been burned into his skin seemed to stand out, and the few times he'd bared his arm in public, he felt as if every eye stared at it with voyeuristic desire. Now, at least, he had good reason to keep his arm private once again, and good reason for people to look if he ever decided to put it on show.

A tapping at the window brought Severus out of his reverie. The darkness had crept unnoticed into the room, and as Severus crossed to the window, he had to step carefully around the furniture. He wondered who had sent him an owl at this time of night.

No-one, as it turned out. The bird on the sill was Fawkes, and as Severus opened the window, Fawkes trilled in evident delight. Fawkes immediately took up position on Severus' shoulder and tweaked his ear in welcome.

"What do you think?" asked Severus, holding up his arm for inspection. He couldn't help feeling a little foolish.

Fawkes tilted his head to one side and carefully stared at Severus' tattoo—first with one eye, then with the other. He clucked once and then began preening his own chest feathers.

"What does that mean?" asked Severus. He sounded peevish. "That you don't think much of the likeness? That you knew already? That you expected as much in homage?"

Fawkes ignored all the questions, not even bothering to look up from his grooming.

Severus grunted in exasperation and pulled down his shirt sleeve, buttoning it back up tightly.

"Let's go back to Hogwarts," he announced suddenly. "I can't stand it here a moment longer."

* * *

><p>Minerva, for one, was delighted to have him back. In her human form, she wasn't one for effusive displays of public affection, but at Severus' appearance she grasped his hand in a pincer grip that lasted too long to be comfortable. Almost at once she began badgering him to come up to her office for tea.<p>

Severus managed to put her off for several days. Hogwarts had provided the company he craved—in the form of his former and once-again colleagues—and a level of physical and magical labour—used to repair the castle—that he found deeply satisfying. He had no desire for the confrontation with Dumbledore's portrait that he knew to be imminent.

Still, Minerva had a persistence that rivalled any of the more subtle means of persuasion Dumbledore had favoured, and eventually, Severus found himself riding the moving staircase up to the Headmistress' office.

"Severus!" she exclaimed as she opened the door. The way she turned from him to face Dumbledore's portrait was unmistakable.

There was a rush of noise, as most of the portraits called out greetings, but it was Albus' calm tones that Severus heard most clearly.

"My dear boy, I am so glad to see you." Dumbledore rose to his feet and leaned towards the picture plane until his forehead was pressed flat against the surface of his painting.

"Albus," Severus replied, his voice blank and devoid of emotion.

"Can you ever forgive me?" asked the painting that represented the man he had killed.

"There is nothing to forgive."

"But I—"

Severus held up a hand and interrupted Albus before he could finish. "Your original plan required my death. I know. From the moment I swore my allegiance to you I expected my life to be forfeit, yet I was willing."

That much was true. No need to mention the moment when his willingness had evaporated: when the fierceness of Hermione Granger's trust propelled him into a new, rawer reality, where despite all evidence to the contrary, Severus Snape began to hope and long for a certain, specific reality rather then the sweet oblivion of death.

Dumbledore's eyes were staring searchingly into his. The painting was life-like enough that Severus wondered momentarily whether portraits could perform Legilimency.

"Severus?" asked Albus quietly, in the same voice he'd used on top of the tower. "Please?"

Dumbledore's hand was pressed up against the picture plane: he wanted Severus to reach out and touch him. For a moment, a rush of black anger welled up inside Severus. He was tempted to spin away and deny the painting its moment of absolution. He was tempted to leave Albus hanging in that interstitial space of the almost-forgiven that Severus himself had inhabited for such a long time. In the end, however, it was the presence of Minerva, hovering by the door, that pushed him to press his own hand up against that of Albus' painting, palm to palm with the pigment and ink that his mentor had become. Minerva—who, after all, would have to share her office with Dumbledore no matter the outcome of this conversation—sniffed back tears, and Severus saw them glinting in Albus' twinkly blue eyes. He himself, felt strangely empty.

"You are much more forgiving than I was," remarked Minerva, breaking off to blow her nose loudly. "At the very least he could have told you."

Severus shrugged. "I would have preferred that he told me, but it doesn't change anything."

"I intended to tell you," interpolated Dumbledore. "But once it was clear that it was Draco, not you, who Harry needed to beat, I became hopeful that another possibility would present itself."

Dumbledore's words should have hurt, but for some reason they didn't: instead, Severus felt completely numb, as if this whole performance was designed to aid Minerva and Albus, but not him.

* * *

><p>Three days before school went back, there was an Order meeting at Hogwarts, and the day before that, Harry Potter went to visit Severus Snape.<p>

When he knocked on the door, Severus assumed it was yet another member of the MLE, calling with yet another question about Death Eater activity. No matter how many Pensieve memories he filed or descriptions he gave, there was always some small detail that needed clarification. Thus when his office door opened to reveal Potter, Severus was momentarily taken aback.

"You're a day early, Potter," he drawled. "The holidays have clearly addled your brain even more than I might have surmised."

"Good afternoon, sir," replied Potter stiffly, refusing the bait. "I hoped to speak with you before the meeting."

Severus let out a long sigh through his nose. "I don't suppose you've satisfied the urge already?" he asked, one eyebrow elevated with false hope. "No? Then you'd better come in."

Potter did as he was bid, carefully closing the door behind him before approaching the desk. Severus hadn't invited him to sit down, and despite an anxious glance at the hard chair that sat ready, Potter stood.

Severus laid his quill down over his fourth-year lesson plans and leant back in his chair, steepling his fingers as he looked over the young man before him.

"Make it snappy, Potter. I haven't got all day." Severus heard the rustle of feathers behind him as Fawkes arranged his head more securely under his wing.

"Well, sir, there were a couple of things . . . first, I wanted to return this." Just for a moment, as he passed across the book he was holding, Potter met Severus' eye. Almost immediately, the boy wrenched his gaze away. Apparently, he was fascinated by a rare specimen of a two-headed goblin foetus, which swum, suspended in formaldehyde, exactly one foot to the left of Severus' face.

The book, Severus noted at once, was the most recent edition of Libatius Borage's _Advanced Potion Making_. Were he still faced with the old, disrespectful Potter, he would have suspected trickery, but the boy had been at such pains to be polite. Severus held the instinctive rush of anger in check. With one long finger, he flicked the book open randomly. The gesture revealed a much older book than the cover suggested, with the pages marred by instructions and additions in a distinctive, spiky script.

His old potions book.

"And second?" he asked, displaying no emotion and making no comment on this return of his property.

"I, er . . ." Potter broke off and took a deep breath. When he began again, his voice had a slightly singsong quality, as if he'd rehearsed the speech before he came. "I know that I only received an 'Exceeds Expectations' in my Potions OWL, but I would very much like to continue Potions at the NEWTs level. I took the sixth year of classes, so I wouldn't be behind. My marks were even quite good. I know you probably think that I cheated, but I really enjoyed learning from the Half-Blood Prince"—how odd, to hear himself referred to in the third person as such—"and"—Potter faltered slightly—"as Hermione pointed out to me, that was you. I was hoping you would consent to have me in your class."

Severus ran one finger over his lips and stared at the student before him appraisingly: his clenched fists, his jutting chin. How much had it cost the boy to come and ask like this? What else had "Hermione" pointed out?

"You are aware, Potter, that all students are required to sit exams at the beginning of this semester?" It was both a question and a statement.

"Yes, sir."

"I suggest you sit the sixth-year test. If you receive an Outstanding grade, I would be prepared to allow you take your NEWT the following year."

Potter stood up slightly taller in surprise. "Thank you, sir!" he exclaimed. "It means a lot to me, you won't regret it."

Severus reached out and flicked the cover of his old Potions book shut with one finger and then slid it across the desk towards Potter.

"I suggest you take this," he commented dryly. "You're going to need it."

Potter looked him directly in the face for the first time in the entire visit. "Sir?" he stuttered. Then, "Thank you. Thank you very much."

He reached out and lifted the book from the desk, cradling it to his chest in an oddly tender gesture.

"Shut the door on your way out, Potter." Severus picked up his pen and drew a sharp straight line across the page.

"Um . . . there was, er, one other thing, sir."

Severus looked up at Potter once again. He sighed theatrically. "What is it now, Potter?"

Potter grimaced and glanced down at the book, stroking one hand across the cover.

"I wondered if you would talk to me about my mum." It came out in a rush; he glanced up at Severus afterwards and then back down at the book.

In all honesty, it was a question Severus had been half expecting ever since Rita's report of his life and Harry's in the _Daily Prophet_.

"It's just," continued Harry, unaccountably emboldened by Severus' lack of response. "It's just that there's no-one else, not now Remus and Sirius . . . No-one but Slughorn has ever mentioned her to me. The only thing I know about her is that she was good at Potions."

"She was good at Potions, Potter, because I taught her."

He hugged the book to his chest. "Well, you taught me, too, sir."

Severus let his eyes flutter closed for a brief moment. He tried to imagine what Lily would say to him if she could see him now. Probably nothing: she hadn't spoken to him since the moment he'd refused to—but enough of that.

"I will, Potter, but not today. Not even, perhaps, this year. But I will. That promise will have to suffice for the time being."

"Thank you, sir. Thank you."

As the boy backed out of the room, clutching his book and smiling to himself and at Severus, in a dazed way, Severus realised that he'd never seen Potter look so uncomplicatedly happy. He turned in his chair to look at Fawkes, but the bird slept on.

About an hour later, Minerva turned up. It was a rare occurrence for her to wander down to the dungeons of her own accord. More typically, she called through the Floo, usually demanding that Severus come to her. That she chose to walk this time suggested that she had something on her mind.

"Ah, Severus," she said in greeting. "Do you have a moment?"

"Come," he replied, getting to his feet and gesturing her through the concealed doorway that led back through his private lab and into his quarters. He waved her towards one of the comfy chairs by the fire and poured her a Firewhisky.

"Thank you, Severus." She clinked her glass against his and took a practiced mouthful of the fiery liquid. "I had Harry Potter up in my office just now," she announced.

"Indeed."

"He's grown up, that boy. Do you know what he wanted?"

_To learn more about his mother from Minerva? Unlikely._ Severus hummed noncommittally and swirled his whisky across the back of his tongue.

"Neither he nor Hermione Granger nor Ronald Weasley wish to be considered for the position of Head Boy or Girl—oh, he didn't go so far as to imply that any of them thought they'd be a shoo-in, but he made his point quite clearly nevertheless. He thinks—or perhaps Hermione thinks, it can be hard to tell sometimes—that it would be fairest to give the position to someone who would have ordinarily been a seventh-year."

There was more than a hint of Granger's intelligence behind the suggestion. But possibly also a fair dose of Potter's reticence for the spotlight. Severus stared down into the smoky alcohol in the base of his glass. Two years ago, he never would have believed it; here he was considering saying as much to Minerva.

"Do you think Miss Lovegood will return to finish her studies?" he asked instead.

"I have reason to believe she will, but that, Severus, is not the point."

"No?" He raised an eyebrow. "Do you see fit to enlighten me?"

"The point, Severus, is Potter!"

"He makes a valid argument: ordinarily we wouldn't consider students returning to repeat a year for the position. It wouldn't be fair."

Minerva snorted with irritation. "The boy has grown up, Severus. He's an adult, and he expects and deserves to be treated like one. How, exactly, do you think that's going to play out in the classroom this year? How about in Order meetings?"

Severus traced slow circles on the arm of his chair with the base of his glass. "I don't deny the boy has grown up, Minerva. Many of our students have. Neither these halls nor the students about to return to them are innocent; I think we're going to have more problems than even the ever-problematic Potter can provide."

"Aye." Minerva sighed. "I'm afeard you're right about that."

* * *

><p>The Order meeting was a relatively small affair: Severus, Minerva, Kingsley, Vector—who'd gone back to her old, assumed name—Potter, Granger, and a medium sized contingent of Weasleys: Molly, Arthur, William, Ronald and Ginevra. It was held in the Headmistress' Office under the rather-too-attentive eye of Dumbledore's portrait, and it was Potter, nudged by Granger, who brought the meeting to attention.<p>

"Shall we get started, then?" he asked the room at large; those around him fell obediently silent.

Minerva shot Severus a smug "I told you so" glance from behind her imposing desk before turning her attention back to Potter.

"Where would you like to begin, Mr Potter?" she asked.

"Well, Hermione made an agenda, actually," volunteered Ron Weasley.

On cue, Granger pulled out a sheet of parchment. The middle finger of her quill hand was stained with a large smudge of dark ink. She stood up and passed it to Minerva.

"1. Purpose," read Minerva to the assembled group. "2. Leadership, 3. Membership, 4. Protection, 5. Possible methods to destroy Elder Wand." She cleared her throat. "Excellent. I assume that you had something to say about the purpose of this meeting?"

"More the purpose of the Order," corrected Potter.

Severus restrained a sigh and leant his head back against the high wings of the chair he'd conjured, careful not to disturb Fawkes where he nestled against Severus' neck. He'd woken that morning with a niggling sense of irritation that had persisted throughout the day. Irreverently, he wondered whether he could train the phoenix to wake him when things got interesting.

"I reinstated the Order on Professor Snape's advice," continued Potter, twisting in his chair and fiddling with his glasses as he peered at the man he named. "And, er, no offence to Kingsley here, the recent events at the Ministry have only proved the good sense of that decision—"

"If you're referring to the fact that you were attacked, Harry, why not just say so?" Ginervra snapped, her arms tightly crossed over her chest.

There was definitely some tension between those two.

"Well, yes, thank you, Ginny." Harry shot her a reproving glance. "The point is that we don't know who our enemy is any more. Terrifying though Voldemort was, we knew who we were fighting. Now, it could be anyone. As I see it, the purpose of this group is twofold: firstly, to deal with the objects that Voldemort's death has left in circulation—namely the Elder Wand and the Resurrection Stone—and secondly, to protect those who are endangered by the existence of the said objects."

"Well said, Potter," commented Minerva approvingly.

"Also," he added, with a fleeting smile of gratitude towards his head of house, "people should feel free to step down. They signed up to the Order to destroy Voldemort. No-one is obliged to keep going."

"No-one except you, of course," snarled Ginevra.

"Oh, Harry," sighed Molly. "We're in it for the long haul. We're not going to abandon you now."

"If we weren't willing, we wouldn't be here, Harry." Arthur rubbed gently at Molly shoulder as he spoke.

Several people spoke at once, but Potter threw up a hand to quiet them. "There are risks, and I can't bear the idea that you all feel obligated to put yourselves in danger once again, just because I didn't manage to keep my big mouth shut about an unbeatable wand in a room full of witnesses and one curious reporter."

"Enough, Harry." Granger looked fierce. "This is not your fault. This is the unavoidable consequence of the plan put into motion by Professor Dumbledore, and it may well have been the only way to defeat Voldemort. There is no need to point the finger of blame."

Harry dropped his head and Ronald reached out and rested a hand in the flat space between his shoulder blades. There was an awkward silence.

Severus broke it.

"Can I suggest we move onto the next item on the agenda?"

Minerva nodded, relieved. "Leadership," she noted in a clipped tone.

"Yeah," replied Harry, drawing a shaky breath and sitting up again. "I think we need to have an official leader, someone to settle arguments and make difficult decisions when necessary."

Severus watched the responses to this statement with mild curiosity. Most of the adult members of the Order looked uncomfortable, and fair enough: it seemed fairly clear where this was headed. Harry Potter might have saved the world, but the reality of taking orders from him on a permanent basis was still a difficult idea for these people, many of whom clearly saw themselves _in loco parentis_. Vector, however, smiled her private smile and scribbled distractedly on a sheet of parchment.

"Someone who can see the whole problem," added Ron.

"Someone who can command our respect," said Granger.

"Yeah," said Potter, nodding his agreement with his friends' comments. "And we think it should be Professor Snape."

The room froze—Severus included. From the corner of one eye, he saw Phineas—who had literally slipped from his chair in surprise—climb back up into his seat.

"An excellent idea!" noted Vector, looking up from her work and tucking her quill behind one ear.

Gradually the other people in the room relaxed. Several were nodding.

"Well, Mr Potter, I think that's a very good suggestion," said Minerva.

"All in favour?" asked Granger.

Severus had to forcibly relax his hands against his chair as he watched everyone in the room raise their hands.

"Severus?" inquired Vector politely, the end of her quill bobbing ridiculously next to her face.

The lure of power was still there, and somewhere, deep inside, it roared to life. _I deserve this_. The thought echoed inside his head and drowned out other, more admirable sentiments. _These people would be nothing without me. I would be in control_. He felt affirmed, noticed, powerful. The speed at which it happened sickened him.

"No," he stated firmly, horror at his own response coating the back of his throat.

Albus, goddamn him, was staring down from his portrait with an entirely sympathetic look on his face.

"Why, Severus?" asked Molly, her brows furrowed slightly.

_Because I can't be trusted._

_Because to be handed something I've always wanted is too dangerous._

_Because I couldn't bear to fail you all._

"The topic is not up for debate," he replied coldly. Fawkes' talons tightened on his shoulder and he tried not to wince.

"As I see it," remarked Granger, her voice unexpectedly light and a devastating upward curve to the edge of her mouth, "you've got two choices: either exercise your right to say no, thus putting your individual opinion above those of the group; or say yes, and thus reserve your right to do so in the future."

Severus found himself uncharacteristically speechless and he glared at her, gritting his teeth at the twinkle in her eye.

"Honestly, Severus, you're the best choice." Minerva looked at him from across the desk, and she twisted one side of her mouth sufficiently that he realised what it had cost her to say so: she'd wanted the job for her own.

Well, she was welcome to it.

"Kingsley has far too much on his plate as the new Minister of Magic, I'm here running the school, Molly and Arthur both have important work to do—at the Ministry and in the Wizengamot as well as with their family. Who else should it be?"

"Besides," added Vector brightly, "I've run some basic calculations and they strongly suggest that Severus' presence as leader will save lives."

Severus directed the full force of his glare at Vector's benign smile. "It becomes evident why Albus never called you to the meetings themselves," he snarled.

"A decision you, too, will be free to make." Vector's smile was undiminished.

"Well?" asked Granger.

Severus made the mistake of meeting her eye. _Where did she learn to look at people like that?_ he wondered. Her gaze cut. She thought he would do it; she thought he would do it well.

Fawkes squeezed again, digging his claws savagely into Severus' shoulder. If the damn bird wasn't more careful, he would draw blood.

_How long until I let her down?_

"Fine," he said at last. There was a noticeable release of tension at his words.

Minerva gave him a tight smile; Granger flashed him a look of gratitude, and then turned her attention back to the front of the room.

"Item three," stated Minerva, reading from Granger's agenda, "membership."

This was, it seemed, the cue to bicker. The range of positions from inclusive to exclusive was widely variable, and the conversation came to a head when Molly shouted at her daughter:

"For the last time, Ginevra! The Order does not accept underage members! Regardless of what you and your friends got up to during the last school year, the answer is no!"

"If you honestly think Harry's friends are going to stand by and do nothing while he's still in danger, then you're the ones that need to grow up!" Ginervra glared around the room, her arms tightly crossed over her chest.

"Enough," said Severus, his voice cutting through the tumult. "Anastasia Septima Sedenova Papavasilopolous Vector, do you have anything to add?"

Vector smiled, bending her head to acknowledge his question. "Yes. I believe that the students will be much safer joining the Order."

"Exactly," snapped Ginevra.

"When people don't know what's going on," added Potter, "they can make stupid and dangerous decisions."

"Better, you imagine, to keep them close and closely watched?" The question came from Kingsley and was directed at the Arithmancy professor.

"Precisely." Vector smiled at him.

"I think that the Order should be open to anyone who wants to join. Hermione can make another one of those magical parchments—"

"A wand oath should prove sufficient," noted Severus, cutting across Ronald Weasley. "Underage members will be welcome. There will not, however, be an open call for membership. The Order of the Phoenix remains a secret and risky organisation, and no-one here is at liberty to speak freely of the Order's existence with anyone who is not already a member. Next item?"

He was more than ready for this interminable meeting to be over.

"Protection."

Granger cleared her throat. "We need to protect Harry, obviously, but also everyone else, too. I thought we should get Vik—Professor Krum to provide voice-activated Portkeys to all of us. That way if there is an attack, everyone can get out safely."

Mercifully, everyone agreed with this statement, and the merits were discussed only briefly. Since Krum was due to arrive with the Hogwarts Express and not before, the topic was shelved until that date. Finally, they reached the last item on the agenda.

"Very well then," said Minerva. "Does anyone have any suggestions about how to destroy the Elder Wand? We have already confirmed that it can't be broken, or indeed, burnt."

There was an expectant silence.

"Well," said Granger eventually. "We did have one possibility to suggest."—She looked over at Potter for permission to continue and he nodded sharply—"Does anyone know what would happen were we to throw the wand through the Veil that they keep in the Department of Mysteries. The one where Sirius died."

"It won't work, I'm afraid," responded Kingsley, in his slow, deep voice. "Objects merely pass through and stay in the real world. To disappear, they would need to be carried by a person . . ." He trailed off. Everyone knew what would happen to the person concerned.

"Also," added Severus, reaching up and attempting to dissuade Fawkes from chewing on his ear as he spoke, "we have no way of knowing what would happen to the wand in the world beyond the Veil. Armed with an 'unbeatable wand' associated with surviving death, it is entirely possible that someone or something might manage to come back."

"Right. Cross that one off the list, then." Ron Weasley's frankly horrified look brought some reluctant chuckles from the grim faces around the room.

"Does anyone else have a suggestion?" asked Granger. "Bill?" She looked hopefully at the newest DADA professor, but he, too shrugged.

"There are some things I could try, but I have no idea if they would work."

Severus stroked the plush feathers of Fawkes' breast.

There was a palpable excitement in the room at the idea that Bill Weasley might just solve the problem, once and for all. After some consultation, the chairs were pushed back against the walls and the wand was taken from the compartment behind Albus' portrait and placed in the centre of the room. Everyone but Bill stood back to give him space.

Before he cast, he performed a quick series of exercises in centring and focussing with the surety born of long practice. _He must_¸ Severus reflected, _have made an extraordinary cursebreaker_. He remembered Minerva's guilty grimace when Bill's appointment as DADA professor had been announced: _"Is it wrong,"_ she had asked, _"to be happy that the younger Mr Weasley's role in destroying Gringotts' made William's job there untenable?"_

The first spell he cast was an Unravelling Charm, designed to tease at the edges of protective wards and allow the caster to spot loopholes or frayed patches. There were no known adverse reactions to this particular variant, yet something pulled at Severus' attention: something wasn't right. He felt the sharp pain of Fawkes' claws piercing the skin of his shoulder as the bird threw his wings out and leapt from his perch. Severus heard Fawkes' loud squawk, even as he sprang to his own feet, wand drawn, and cast the strongest shield charm of which he was capable on the occupants of the room.

At that very moment, the room exploded.

When the smoke cleared, he saw everyone, miraculously uninjured, though Bill Weasley was singed and Minerva's new tartan curtains were burnt beyond repair. Fawkes lay in the centre of the room beside the Elder Wand. He was featherless, wrinkled and grey; impossibly ugly. The wand was unharmed.

With a snarl, Severus waved his own wand at the Elder Wand, sending it flying through the air and safely into the hidden cabinet. Dumbledore's portrait slammed closed with a satisfying bang. Severus bent and scooped up the tiny body of his killed and reborn phoenix, tucking him safely into his pocket.

"Meeting adjourned," he growled before turning on his heel and sweeping out of the room.

* * *

><p>AN: Grumpy, isn't he? :)


	8. Chapter 7: Foundering

_Phoenix Reprise_, Chapter Seven: Foundering

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

I want to dedicate this chapter to MaxManuka, who wrote me a set of such wonderful, thoughtful, enthusiastic reviews, that I immediately finished up this chapter and sent it to my beta!

And of course, my deepest thanks to Ari, for her generous and sharp-eyed beta.

* * *

><p>"But that spell shouldn't have had such a reaction! That particular Unravelling Charm has no known contraindications—"<p>

"Hermione!" Ron interrupted her and gave her a goofy smile. He was hanging over the back of the couch, his chin propped on a cushion. "How do you remember all this stuff?"

"I pay attention, Ron!" The knot of anxiety deep in Hermione's gut twisted a little tighter. "Our NEWTs are in less than a week, and—"

"No they're not," he interrupted again. "Our 'diagnostic exams' are in less than a week. Harry and me are only trying for one NEWT, remember? And anything that you don't do well on you can re-take at the end of the year. Anything you pass now is a bonus."

"The NEWT that you are taking though, Ronald, is Defence Against the Dark Arts! So the Unravelling Charm that Bill used is something that you should know about, too."

Harry sighed and looked up from the Half-Blood Prince's Potions book. "Do you two ever do anything but bicker?"

"Yeah, mate," smirked Ron. "Sometimes we snog—quite often, actually."

Hermione blushed. They were kissing. A lot. And she teetered back and forth from frustration to relief at the fact they weren't doing more. In retrospect, she shouldn't have been surprised that Lavender had exaggerated the intimacy of her relationship with Ron, though Hermione did still find it a little odd that an eighteen-year old boy was content to stop at kissing. He had yet to put his hand up her shirt!

Noticing Harry's scowl, Hermione felt guilty. _He probably doesn't need reminding that some people are kissing their girlfriends_, she reflected.

"It was the wand," commented Harry, brusquely changing the subject.

"Well, obviously it was the wand!" replied Hermione, seizing on the return to the original topic gratefully. "But—"

"Come on, Hermione. If my phoenix wand could learn so much from just a few short encounters with Voldemort, think about how much knowledge the Elder Wand must have absorbed: for thousands of years it was passed from one powerful Dark Wizard to another."

Hermione sighed, considering his words. She chewed distractedly on the skin at the side of her thumbnail.

"Maybe we should just ask Ollivander how to destroy it?"

"Maybe, Ron." Hermione screwed up her face. "Although he seemed rather creepily fascinated by the Elder Wand when we talked to him about it at Shell Cottage. I can't imagine him helping to destroy it."

"Me neither," agreed Harry, nodding. "Don't worry, Hermione. We'll work something out—it's going to be two months before the next Order meeting, after all. Once we've done these exams we'll have some more free time."

_Exams_. Hermione exchanged a rather stressed smile with Harry, and they both turned their attentions back to their textbooks.

"I guess that means more studying," sighed Ron, twisting back round on the couch and pulling a face at his charms book. "How long until dinner?"

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><p>Hermione felt peculiar arriving at Kings' Cross Station, slipping through the barrier onto Platform 9¾ and seeing the Hogwarts Express. Glancing around at the crowds of students and their families, at the trolleys full of trunks, cages containing owls, spitting cats and a variety of other animals, and the general havoc of the day, she realised that she couldn't be the only one. The level of tension in the air was higher than she remembered, and some parents were clinging to their children with an unmatched ferocity.<p>

Ignoring the pricking of her conscience, Hermione scanned the platform for any sign of Severus Snape. Despite the best of best intentions, she'd spent far too much of her summer thinking about her stern professor.

_It doesn't mean anything_, she lectured herself rather ineffectually. _It's not cheating on Ron to think about your teacher, not really_.

Though she spotted Viktor Krum and Bill Weasley in the distance, there was no sign of the sharp black silhouette she'd been looking for. Hermione turned back towards the crowded Weasley contingent, intending to ask Ginny what the train trip had been like the previous year, only to see the girl flick her hair back over her shoulder so that it danced and fluttered as she spun on her heel.

"See you guys round, perhaps," Ginny commented airily. Within moments her attention was taken by another arrival.

Neville—taller, leaner and much more handsome than he'd once been—greeted Ginny with a smile. Ginny laughed and threw her arms around his neck; he spun her around in the air before returning her to her feet and pulling her over to speak with his gran.

Hermione let her eyes slide over towards Harry and her heart lurched at the naked expression on his face. She wasn't surprised: he'd looked like that far too often lately.

"Come on," she said firmly, stepping over to where he stood and slipping her hand through the crook of his elbow. "Let's go find a compartment."

"Okay, I'll just get the . . ."

"Trunks?" she supplied brightly as he trailed off. Her nonverbal Levitation Charm had already set them bobbing in the air behind them.

"Oh, yeah." Harry grinned a little sheepishly.

They found an empty compartment quickly, and as Ron flopped down onto the seat, Hermione sent the trunks up onto the rack with a wave of her wand. For good measure, she locked the door behind them and pulled down the blinds on the corridor side so that no-one could see in.

"Look on the bright side, mate," commented Ron, reaching out with one foot and good-naturedly pushing against Harry's knee. "Since none of us have prefect duty, we can stay in here with you the whole time."

"Brilliant," muttered Harry. "Stuck in a carriage with the happy couple."

Hermione rolled her eyes at the pair of them. "If it helps, Harry, I can ignore Ron for the entire trip! It would be my pleasure."

Ron poked out his tongue, and she winked back.

"I'm sorry," said Harry abruptly. He took a shaky breath and ran one hand back through his hair. "It's just . . . with Ginny . . . I'm not sure what I've done wrong." He gave Hermione a beseeching look. "Hermione, you're a girl—"

"Very observant, Harry," she teased.

"Explain it to me. What am I supposed to do?"

"Well . . ." Hermione fished for the right way to word things. "I think she's still annoyed with you for leaving her behind."

Harry looked completely taken aback. "But I had to! I did it to protect her!"

"Yes, but Harry, this is Ginny we're talking about." Hermione hesitated for a second, then pressed on. "I don't think she really needs protecting."

"Hermione!" protested Harry. "If I'd let her come along, I wouldn't have been able to concentrate. If we'd been in danger, I would have been more worried about her than I was about what Voldemort was up to!"

"But that's exactly it, Harry. All those issues aren't about Ginny's safety, they're about your reactions to it."

With a loud blast of the horn, the Hogwarts Express pulled out of the station. Hermione saw the crowd of parents madly waving, the red hair of the Weasleys a blur of colour against the other faces.

"So you're saying that I'm selfish?"

_Well, yes._

"No! I know that you acted with the best of intentions, Harry. I'm just saying that you made that decision for her, based on your own needs—not on hers. And it's not like leaving her behind kept her safe, either. For all intents and purposes she was forced to attend a school run by Death Eaters."

"Snape wasn't a Death Eater," replied Harry sulkily, his arms crossed.

"No, but she didn't know that and neither did you."

"You did." He was staring out the window now.

"Yes, I did. But we're not talking about me, we're talking about your relationship with Ginny."

Harry lifted one had to the window frame and ran his thumbnail along a join in the wood. It took him a moment to work up to what he wanted to say next.

"She kissed Neville last year; she told me."

That was news to Hermione.

"What!?" Ron burst into the conversation with all the subtlety of Grawp on tiptoe. "She kissed _Neville_?"

"Ron!" said Hermione sharply. "_Ron_!" He looked at her on the second try, his mouth opened to express his disbelief once again, his face already flushed an angry red.

"Not helping!" she mouthed, holding up a finger to silence him. He stopped speaking at once, but from the way his jaw muscles bunched under the skin and the way he shook his head, she knew he had continued a mental stream of imprecations despite the absence of volume.

"Listen to me, Harry," she urged, reaching out and placing a hand on his arm. "Ginny kissed Neville, so what? Maybe they ran into each other under the mistletoe, and she gave him a quick peck on the cheek. Maybe she overheard someone teasing him about his lack-of-love life and walked smack up to him in the common room and kissed him full on the mouth. Maybe she was lonely. You don't actually know anything about it."

"I can't believe Neville would do that!" exclaimed Ron.

"Yeah, me neither," responded Harry with new vigour. He was clearly keen to blame it on someone other than Ginny.

"Ron, shut up." Hermione wheeled back towards Harry. "Tell me, Harry, what is it that you love about Ginny?"

Harry flushed slightly and slumped down in his seat. "I, er . . ."

"Ginny is beautiful, Harry. But if that's the only reason you love her, you'd better just give up now and fall for Parvati instead. Ginny lives her life the way that she plays Quidditch: she's fearless, she's fierce and she plays to win. She's the kind of girl who perfects the Bat Bogey Hex _before_ coming to Hogwarts; the kind of girl who flies directly into the announcer's booth and knocks it over if she feels it's warranted." Hermione took a deep breath. "She's the kind of girl who runs a clandestine Defence Against the Dark Arts group in a castle run by Death Eaters."

"I get it," replied Harry heavily. "But what am I supposed to do?"

Hermione tugged gently at a fold of his sleeve. "Ginny's got six—" She broke off. "F-five," she stuttered. Ron gave her a sympathetic grimace and reached out with one foot and rubbed at her leg. "Ginny's got five older brothers to protect her; I think in a life partner she's looking for something different."

Harry, who had screwed up his face and gazed determinedly out the window when Hermione had slipped up, shot her a sideways glance.

"That still doesn't tell me what to do," he said.

Hermione lifted both hands in an exaggerated shrug. "Just let her be herself. Let her take risks. Let her be your equal."

"Oh, well then. That sounds much easier." Harry crossed his arms sulkily again and stared out at the moving scenery.

"Harry?" asked Hermione tentatively. When he didn't turn around, she reached out and prodded him gently in the arm. He pulled his arm away.

"Mate," said Ron, reaching out with his foot once again and nudging Harry's knee sideways.

"What?" he snarled.

"You know, if you don't stop behaving like a complete prat, Hermione and me are going to leap right over there and tickle you until you scream for mercy."

Hermione couldn't hold back a grin. Sometimes Ron said exactly the right thing. Even Harry couldn't hide the way that the corner of his mouth twitched up. Smiling reluctantly, he huffed out a huge breath.

"Fair cop." He turned towards them both and ran one hand back through his hair. "Thanks, Hermione. I really needed to hear all that stuff, and I'll do my best to act on it somehow." Reaching out with his own foot, he shoved Ron's knee—none too gently, but without malice. "Happy now?"

"Pretty good," replied Ron, swivelling away to peer behind one of the blinds. "But I won't be really happy until the food trolley gets here."

And with that, everything was almost back to normal—for several hours in a row.

* * *

><p>At the Hogwarts station, a host of lanterns floated in the twilight, illuminating the disembarking students with a soft golden glow. Hagrid's voice boomed out over the noise of hundreds of children chattering and shouting greetings, "Firs' years, over 'ere!"<p>

"Weird, innit?" asked Ron. "Being here. Blimey, the first-years seem to get smaller every time I blink. I'm worried I might step on one of them."

Hermione took hold of both of her boys, threading an arm through each of theirs to keep them close. Everything felt a little odd.

A few paces towards the exit, they ran into Jocelyn. A "Mudblood Pride" badge flashed brightly on her lapel, shimmering an iridescent green in the evening air. Sometime in the last few weeks she'd chopped off all of her hair, leaving only a spiky fringe on top. It wasn't very different from the way Draco had worn his hair at that age and it emphasised the relationship between them to a surprising degree.

"Hey, Hermione," she said. "Have you seen Draco?"

"What on earth happened to your hair?" demanded Ron.

"Oh." Jocelyn one hand over the exposed nape of her neck and up over her hair. She gave Ron a wicked smile. "Narcissa wouldn't stop talking about how I'd inherited the 'Malfoy' hair; she even gave me a lecture on the acceptable hairstyles for Malfoy women."

Ron grinned back appreciatively. "I'm guessing that that one wasn't on the list."

"Good guess," replied Jocelyn. "Oh, look! There he is. Draco!" she called, slipping between two groups of Ravenclaw students and disappearing into the crowd; she waved goodbye over one shoulder as she went.

"Hard to believe that someone so normal is related to those gits," remarked Ron, following Jocelyn's path towards Draco with narrowed eyes.

"Forget about Draco," advised Harry. "Let's go grab a carriage."

They waded their way through the throng and out towards where the carriages were waiting.

"It feels strange not being a prefect and having to have to worry about the younger stu—" Hermione broke off as they turned the final corner and the carriages came into sight. Though she'd known that the carriages were pulled by Thestrals, that was nothing compared to the shock of their skeletally thin bodies between the shafts, their black, bat-like wings shifting and folding as they stood, the way they tilted their heads to stare curiously at children who were, for the most part, unaware of their existence. Visions of the hideous, terrifying night over the Dursley's house flashed across her mind.

Harry squeezed Hermione's hand reassuringly where it sat in the crook of his arm. "Just remember how much they've helped us," he said.

"Yes," she replied, nodding slowly. As she pulled herself together, Hermione glanced round and noticed that she wasn't the only one shocked by the sight of the Thestrals. Not four feet away was a pair of younger students who looked to be about thirty seconds from outright hysterics. Her grip on Harry and Ron's arms tightened convulsively. "Other people can see them, too—and they don't know why!"

Both boys leapt forwards when she did.

"Hi there!" said Ron cheerfully. "I'm guessing you can see the Thestrals."

"See w-what?" asked the youngest, a girl with long blonde ringlets and a set of fluttering butterfly barrettes. Leaving her in Ron's capable hands, Hermione moved over to the next group of students. Everyone who had participated in the Final Battle could see them, and a number of other students could, too. Other students—who couldn't see the strange creatures—were bothered by the reactions of their companions who could.

Hermione, Ron and Harry made sure that they explained things to everyone who seemed to need it. They were still bent to their task when Bill and Viktor climbed down off the train and found them there.

The two newly minted professors took over immediately, sending the trio on up to the castle.

"So much for not having to look out for the younger students!" exclaimed Ron as he collapsed into the carriage.

Harry laughed in response. "No rest for the wicked, Ron," he chided.

Hermione stared out the window at the tail of the Thestral, which twitched lazily as the animal pulled the carriage up the drive. _So many students have witnessed death_, she reflected. They might have won, but it would be a long time before the war itself was forgotten.

* * *

><p>The Great Hall was a blaze of light and colour. Having spent the journey holed up in their train compartment, Harry, Ron and Hermione were mobbed by friends shouting greetings and saying hello. Only once McGonagall called for silence did everyone finally find their seats and calm down.<p>

It was Professor Snape—in his new role as Assistant Headmaster—who led the first-years in for their Sorting. Beside the group of eleven-year-old students he looked incredibly tall and imposing; Hermione found herself unable to drag her eyes away. With a single raised eyebrow, he shepherded the nervous first-years into a straight line, then he held out the burnt, damaged Sorting Hat with a regal flourish. The Hat called up another wave of memory, and Hermione saw Neville standing up to Voldemort. So vivid was the image that she could practically taste the acrid smell of his singed flesh across the back of her throat.

Unexpectedly, someone at the Ravenclaw table started to clap. Singly and then _en masse_, others joined in. Chairs scraped against the flagstones as students and staff rose to their feet. Hermione let her tears trickle unchecked, too intent on clapping to wipe them away.

After a moment, Headmistress McGonagall stepped around the staff table and stood beside Professor Snape. She placed one hand on his shoulder and raised the other for silence. Almost immediately, the room hushed.

"It was my intention," she began, her Scottish burr thickened with emotion, "to proclaim a toast at the end of the feast, but it seems more appropriate to do it now." She waved her wand, and delicate golden goblets appeared in the air in front of everyone present, including the first-year students who still stood in a line across the front of the staff table. "In this very hall," continued McGonagall, "Hogwarts witnessed a tremendous victory. But such triumph does not come without cost. Before we drink, I invite you all to remember those who made the ultimate sacrifice so that we might find peace."

At that, she turned back towards the high table and gestured at Professor Flitwick. He drew his own wand and, with a textbook-perfect swish and flick, sent a shower of sparkling golden charms spinning around the room. Each flash of light was the name of someone killed during the Final Battle, and they danced around the room, fluttering over the students and up towards the night sky of the charmed ceiling.

McGonagall took hold of her goblet and held it up before her. "To those we lost," she proclaimed, "and to those who lived!"

"To those we lost, and to those who lived!" echoed Hermione along with everyone else.

The liquid in each goblet was a rich, golden mead. It warmed Hermione, and seemed to sparkle on the way down, much like the charms Flitwick had sent floating around the room.

After the toast, the students sat for the sorting proper. While the hat sang of house unity and the role all four houses had played in the defeat of Voldemort, Hermione watched Snape. As assistant head, he stood throughout the song, just behind and to the left of the hat. Even as the hat detailed the special Slytherin gifts that had contributed to victory, his face remained impassive. When the song was finished, and the applause had died away, Snape stepped forward and unrolled a piece of parchment.

"Aldergate, Abigail," he proclaimed. A tiny child stepped forward, visibly trembling, and disappeared under the hat.

"Hufflepuff!" shouted the hat, and the appropriate table exploded with cheers. As the young girl walked to her seat, one of Flitwick's charms danced around her and led the way.

Once the sorting was over, McGonagall took the podium once again, this time to introduce the new staff: Bill Weasley as Defence Against the Dark Arts professor and as Gryffindor head of house, Viktor Krum as the new Transfiguration professor, and—to Hermione's utter delight—Kaleisha Shacklebolt as professor of Muggle Studies. Professor Shacklebolt still had duties at the Ministry, explained McGonagall, so she would be in residence only two days a week, but since Muggle Studies was an elective, two days should prove perfectly adequate. The good news made Hermione even more determined to pass her Muggle Studies OWL and get accepted into the NEWT class.

Ron was comparison testing a second helping of treacle tart against the sticky toffee pudding—"It's really interesting, 'Mione," he said around a mouthful, "because the sugary base of the two sweets is different; I must remember to ask Kreacher about it,"—when the food was cleared away and McGonagall stood up to speak once again.

"We have come," announced McGonagall, "to a particularly important part of tonight's proceedings. As all of you are no doubt aware, Hogwarts was attacked on the evening of the first of May and suffered considerable damage. Thanks to the unceasing efforts of a huge number of volunteers, most of that damage has since been repaired and Hogwarts was able to open this year as usual. One thing yet remains to be done: the Founders' Wards were damaged, and tonight we intend to set them to rights.

"The spells are renewed only rarely—indeed, records show that this is only the third time such measures have been necessary in the history of the school; the last was over three hundred years ago. You are all, therefore, privileged to witness this event.

"The Founders' Ward require the participation of four witches or wizards of higher-than-average magical ability, one from each house. For the wards to hold, the participants must be firm friends. It is my great delight to announce that these conditions were easily met among the current faculty of the school.

"In just a moment, I will ask everyone to rise to their feet, while I remove the house tables. After that point, the observers should form a circle around the outside of the room; you will need to link hands. May I suggest that this is a perfect moment to demonstrate the house unity that the Sorting Hat recommended. More than one historical source suggests that the Wards will be strengthened by such sentiment."

McGonagall paused for a moment, sweeping her gaze the length of each table in turn. "Please rise."

When everyone was standing, McGonagall banished the tables. With another flourish of her wand, she changed the tartan panels of her gown into a brilliant Gryffindor red. Behind her, Snape, Hooch and Madam Pomfrey rose and moved forwards. The two women were already dressed in their house colours; Snape transfigured a green swath down the front of his robes as he walked.

Pulling her gaze from the Slytherin head of house, Hermione turned towards the Slytherin students. Without waiting to see if Ron and Harry would follow, she set out for the other side of the room. She spied her target easily and wound her way through groups of milling students until she stood by her side.

"Hi, Tracey," she said. "Mind if I stand here?"

Tracey Davis gave Hermione Granger a long look. "Sure," she said eventually, her voice neutral. She stepped sideways so that Hermione could fit into the circle between her and Blaise Zabini. Blaise gave Hermione a disdainful look that bordered on rude, and when Hermione assumed her position next to Tracey, she was inordinately reassured that Jocelyn squeezed in on her other side and took her hand instead.

"Hey, Hermione," said the younger girl. "Hey, Blaise."

From her new position facing out across the Great Hall, Hermione was not altogether surprised to see that both Harry and Ron had followed her to the Slytherin side of the room. Harry, with Ron trailing along behind, walked directly up to Draco Malfoy. Awkwardly, the two young men—one so blond and one so dark—exchanged a few words, then Harry stepped to Draco's side and took hold of his hand. The look on both of their faces was priceless.

Not to be outdone, and perhaps working on the assumption that Harry needed protection, Ron stepped up to Draco's other side and grabbed his other hand. From the way that Draco stiffened, Hermione had to assume that Ron was squeezing uncomfortably hard. She wasn't sure whether Ron's behaviour qualified as inter-house unity, or inter-house aggression—it was, however, completely unprecedented. She felt relieved when Luna drifted up and took Ron's other side.

Across the hall, Hermione caught Ginny's eye, and the two young women exchanged nods that could have passed as salutes. Ginny and Neville had joined a group of Hufflepuffs who had fought as part of Dumbledore's Army.

By that point, Snape, McGonagall, Pomfrey and Hooch had reached the centre of the hall. All four had their wands in their right hands and they extended their left hands out and forward, taking hold of the left wrist of the person nearest them. The result was a small square formed by their left forearms, with their bodies projecting like the spokes of a wheel, each of them facing anticlockwise. At some signal, unseen to the rest of the room, the four friends began to walk in their tight circle, stepping in time to a slow but regular beat.

Snape was the first to begin to sing. The baritone rumble of his voice traced a melody so slow and ponderous that it took Hermione almost thirty seconds to realise that it wasn't a drone. Moments later, Hooch joined in. Her singing voice was deep for a woman, and she wove her melody around what Snape sang, fitting two or three notes to each of his. The music sounded ancient. There was no sense of metre, instead the melodies seemed to ebb and flow around the pulse of the footfalls as the four friends continued to walk their tight circle. Pomfrey and McGonagall added their voices simultaneously. The lighter sounds of their fluting soprano voices moved faster still, passing short motives back and forth between each other.

All together, they produced a music that was simultaneously intricate, yet static. It reminded Hermione of the colourful stained glass windows of an old church: one image broken into fragments of light.

From the outstretched wands of the four participants, came a shimmering, palpable force. Hermione's eyes widened and she attempted—without success—to focus on the substance the spell produced: it was like the iridescence of mother of pearl, as if infinitely fine silken fabric flowed from each wand, with only the sparkle of the shot threads to indicate its existence. Onwards and through the circle of watching students flowed the wave of magic. As it passed, Hermione felt cocooned in its warmth. She felt safe and protected. Behind her, she knew without actually seeing that it seeped into the walls of the Great Hall. She could feel its effects spreading throughout the castle, imbuing everything along the way with the sense of well-being and support that she was currently experiencing. Through it all, Snape's voice was like a rock: grounding her, holding her up.

Beside her, Jocelyn sighed. Glancing down at her, Hermione saw tears rolling down the young girl's face; her eyes were fixed on the four figures in the centre of the room. Hermione gave her hand a squeeze, and turned her own attention back to the remarkable piece of magic unfolding before her. She wondered whether everyone else felt the same sense of belonging and interconnectedness that she did. The music and the magic it created filled her with the desire to do better by everyone, to be a better person, to forgive, to heal.

_How_, she marvelled, _did the founders ever argue, if together they were capable of developing and producing this joy?_

If _Hogwarts: A History_ were to be believed, the answer was "blood purity."

Since a similar destructive impulse had brought them to the current need to recast the Founders' Wards, it shouldn't seem so impossible. Yet it did.

The four houses were meant to be friends. As Snape, McGonagall, Hooch and Pomfrey wove extraordinary magic together, Hermione felt surer of that than she ever had about anything. It was up to them—the students and staff of Hogwarts—to break this interminable cycle of violence and discrimination. With Jocelyn and Tracey's hands in hers, and Jocelyn's "Mudblood pride" badge flickering intermittently in her peripheral vision, Hermione felt empowered to work towards that goal. The music soared through her, and she knew that she could succeed.

* * *

><p>Author's Note: The music I was thinking about was something vaguely (although not precisely) contemporary with the founder's era: Perotin's four-part organum.<p>

Also, last night I stayed up until 3am reading Bitterblue. Wow! Anyone who hasn't read Kristin Cashore's Graceling trilogy should run to their local library or independent bookstore and start right now! Strong, capable female characters dealing with real evil in a inventively magical world. And very well written.


	9. Chapter 8: Testing

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter Eight: Testing

DISCLAIMER: Most of the characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I warn you all now, this HAS NOT been edited by my beta who has been too overwhelmed with work to look at it. I'm posting it anyway because at this rate, the story will never be finished! Happy New Year, my friends-I'll try to post more chapters more often in 2013 xox

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><p>As the casting of the Founders' Wards drew to a close, Severus collected himself. Running one hand roughly down his face, he wiped away all evidence of the tears the phenomenal connection with his friends had triggered. Hooch thumped him on the back and he looked up to see her grinning face.<p>

"Coming for a drink?" she asked cheerfully.

"Later, perhaps. I have to meet with my Slytherins."

Despite his dismissive words, Hooch held out her right hand. With the familiarity of habit, he took it, and she jerked him closer, throwing her left arm around his shoulders and patting him firmly between his shoulder blades.

"Don't take too long," she urged, letting him go.

Before he could extricate himself, Poppy pulled him down for a hug and kissed his cheek. Minerva—thank goodness—limited herself to looking at him severely over her glasses.

"You'll come and have a drink afterwards, Severus, and that's an order from your superior."

He bowed, only half mockingly, then swept towards the door. He had no desire to stand in the middle of the room under the gaze of the whole school for any longer than was absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, Ronald Weasley and Hermione Granger stood between him and the exit—she with her face buried on his chest, him with his arms around her and his chin on her head. Severus tried, and failed, to ignore the painful wrench the sight caused.

"Ten points from Gryffindor for an inappropriate display of affection, Weasley," he snarled, stepping past them with a billow of fabric and affecting a blind disregard for the many other students who were also hugging. Catching sight of several of the fifth-year Slytherins, he jerked his head towards the door. They began immediately to hurry down towards the Slytherin common room and his other Slytherins took notice. The veritable exodus of green school ties comforted him somewhat, and Severus pushed his irritation away into the recesses of his brain. There were other things more worthy of his attention.

Within moments of his entrance into the Slytherin common room, the room was full.

"Welcome," he said calmly, raising a hand for silence. He looked out across the room, taking in the expressions on the young faces before him: too many looked unnaturally strained and tired for so early in the year, but they also, as a whole, looked hopeful. It wasn't a bright-eyed, Gryffindor hopefulness, but something more careful, wary even.

"Over the last year," he announced, "Slytherin house has proved its mettle. There were those within the system who kept cool heads and worked to bring down Dark powers." Severus let his gaze linger on the Malfoy children with their ridiculous matching haircuts. One corner of Draco's mouth twitched self-deprecatingly, but both he and Jocelyn raised their chins slightly in parallel gestures of recognition. "There were others who stood ready to declare their allegiance towards Hogwarts once given the opportunity." He gazed at Tracey Davis just long enough that the room was aware of whom he spoke. "Still others resisted family pressure to choose sides based on traditions and long-held prejudices." Both Blaise Zambini and Theodore Nott managed to hold their heads up under Severus' scrutiny as he paused once again for emphasis. He narrowed his eyes as he sought out the target for his last words of recognition. "Others tried to comply with instructions and minimise the damage to innocent students." Pansy Parkinson, he noted, stood slightly straighter as his words sunk in.

He felt particularly keenly for this particular generation of young adults, forever destined to be judged against Harry Potter and found wanting—as if The Chosen One had ever actually had to choose which way his loyalties should lie.

"To be sure," he continued, "Slytherin house was prey to the seductions of power and influence—often evidenced by the very same people who proved themselves in other ways." He shrugged—hugely, theatrically. He was offering them absolution, and they knew it. He saw them relax slightly, saw slight smiles tug at their faces. "It is, I assure you, on our present and future choices that we can hope to be judged; a new year stands before us. While the consequences of war are rarely painless, we have an opportunity to work against the prejudices that have long dogged Slytherin—both within and without. I also," he paused, and with one eyebrow raised, glanced around the room, "would like to see the House Cup restored to its rightful place in my study. See that you do your best to make my dreams a reality."

There was laughter and applause at his speech, and once it died down, Severus moved to the more typical elements of the meeting: introducing the new students, congratulating the prefects, detailing the House rules and the procedure for Quidditch tryouts. Within fifteen minutes, his work was done.

Having warned all students to be in bed by midnight and reminded them that their exams would begin in the morning, he paused only briefly to check on Fawkes before he made his way towards Hooch and Poppy's quarters. He really did want a drink.

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><p>To Severus' complete surprise, the 'diagnostic examinations' went remarkably smoothly. Compulsory subjects had been scheduled early in the exam period—with Potions the day after Transfiguration—in order to give those teachers the maximum time to grade. First-years were, of course, exempt from all diagnostic testing; their classes had begun already, though they got an atypical supervised recess whenever a scheduled class clashed with the exam day in a particular subject.<p>

Students wishing to take an OWL or a NEWT were completely out of Severus' hands and scheduled with written exams in the Great Hall directly after breakfast and practicals in the Potions classroom immediately after lunch; the regular examiners had been sent by the Ministry. That left Severus with the second, third, fourth, fifth and seventh-year students, to whom he had, respectively, to administer first, second, third, fourth and sixth-year equivalency exams.

The seventh-year class was small, and he managed to squeeze them and the fifth-years into the Potions classroom for their practical exam first thing in the morning; he spaced out the other classes over the rest of the day, with all students taking their written exam in the Great Hall after lunch when the Potions classroom would be in use by the OWL and NEWT examinations.

For the two upper classes, Severus put two sets of instructions up on the board. Seeing the stressed faces in front of him, he snarled derisively, then charmed the board so that only the correct set of directions was visible to each student: you might call it pity, though it seemed only sensible to reduce the possibilities for horrendous error.

Potter, he noted, was very pale, and the boy stared at the instructions fixedly, carefully reading them from start to finish before he began to brew. Weasley, on the other hand, Severus ignored completely. He wished he could have said the same about Granger, but while he didn't look at her once, he was so aware of her presence that it was folly to pretend that his behaviour might count as "ignoring." He noticed the smooth motions with which she set about her task; he was aware of her back, stiffening, as she refrained—under exam conditions—from pointing out to Weasley that he'd mashed his ginseng roots rather than shaving them; he registered the precise moment when her potion reached completion.

When she walked up to his desk to deposit the sample of her finished work, he kept his eyes fixed on the parchment before him, though he could feel her eyes lingering on his face: inviting, no expecting, some gesture of recognition. Surreptitiously, Severus slipped his hand into his pocket where his infant phoenix was hidden and ran a gentle finger along the back of Fawkes' neck. If he had to be her teacher, he was going to do it properly. No special treatment. No friendship. No thinking about the way she felt in his arms, the feel of her lips against his, her smell.

_No._

Angry at himself, Severus cleared his mind, subsuming his turmoil and focussing on the page in front of him.

_I am calm_, he told himself as Granger turned and walked away from his desk. Her perfect potion sample glinted blue in his peripheral vision.

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><p>How stupid, he realised belatedly, to have chosen Potions. If he'd just had the forethought to select Defence Against the Dark Arts when given the chance, he wouldn't have had to teach Granger ever again. <em>And what would you have been then?<em> he asked himself cruelly. _Her friend? Her confidant?_ Ronald Weasley would still be her boyfriend and he himself would still have been more than twice her age. _Better, really, that you have this reason to hold yourself in check._

With that, Severus gave a last glance to the preparations in his classroom and swept out the door towards breakfast and the Great Hall. Coming from the dungeon, and not from the staff room, he walked through the main doors and up past the student tables on his way to his seat. Lavender Brown's garish scarf caught his eye.

"Five points from Gryffindor for the uniform violation, Miss Brown," he snarled without checking his stride. "Remove the offending item at once."

The students around her froze at his words, and instincts tuned to odd discrepancies kicked in. Snape spun towards Brown, letting his robes billow out dramatically and leant towards her; he spoke over the protest that was forming on her lips.

"Now, Miss Brown." The threat was evident in his voice, and hesitantly, her lower lip trembling pitifully, the irritating girl complied. As Brown's fingers fumbled with the knot, Severus felt the weight of Granger's gaze heavy on his face. He refused to turn and look at her.

What did Granger expect? Just because he was good, didn't mean that he was nice. Brown had no right to deck herself with a hideous floral atrocity over the breakfast table; he couldn't believe Minerva hadn't already pointed out and rectified the girl's lapse.

Only as Lavender Brown finally unwound the length of slippery silk did Severus realise why his reproof had silenced the crowd, why Potter had his hands fisted into the back of Weasley's robes, and why Granger was staring at him so fiercely. The scars on Brown's neck were ugly and raw—unmistakable evidence that she'd tangled with a werewolf. No wonder Minerva had let the infraction slide.

Severus leant even further forwards, placing his hands either side of Brown's plate and lowering his voice so that only she and perhaps those immediately beside her could hear what he said.

"There," he whispered in his nastiest voice, a mirthless smile pulling at one side of his mouth. "That wasn't so hard was it?"

He waited insistently until she ground out "No, sir," from between clenched teeth.

"And here I was," he added quietly, "thinking that Gryffindors took pride in their illustrious exploits."

With that, he pushed himself up and away from the table and stalked down the length of the hall to take his place between next to Hooch.

"Sn—everous!" expostulated Bill Weasley just as Severus' hand closed around the coffee pot. Clearly the young man was still having trouble calling his colleagues by their first names. "What harm did it do for the girl to cover her scars?"

Severus directed a fierce scowl towards the red-headed professor.

"I would have expected the newest Head of Gryffindor House to take the uniform requirements seriously. Perhaps you should consider instilling a sense of self-worth in your students? Then they might not feel obliged to hide from the gazes of others."

Weasley spluttered something in reply, but bit his tongue when Minerva placed her hand firmly over his freckled fist.

"Indeed, Severus," she commented politely. "But there are more tactful approaches than the one you so ably demonstrated."

Severus, having poured himself an espresso, paused in the act of raising it to his lips. "Excuse me if I don't hold my breath in anticipation of forthcoming demonstrations of Gryffindor tact, Minerva," he replied. "I imagine it would consist of making floral neck ornaments compulsory, so that Miss Brown felt less isolated in her disfigurement." He moved as if to drink, and then paused a moment longer in order to sweep his eyes dismissively across Bill Weasley's face. "Although," he drawled, "were Professor Weasley here to adopt the habit of wrapping his own face, it might at least make it easier for others to stomach their breakfasts."

Weasley flushed the unattractive purple that Severus was more accustomed to seeing on the face of the man's younger brother.

Unexpectedly, the rumble of Hooch's laughter cut across the table. Leaning around Severus, she raised her goblet of pumpkin juice in a toast. "Here's to you, Weasley, for restoring my faith in the universe: I'd been worried that public recognition had muted Snape's edge."

As the length of the High Table dissolved into laughter, Bill subsided awkwardly, and Snape buried himself in breakfast, steadfastly ignoring the hard, if familiar, ache of remorse.

With the seventh-year NEWTs class directly after breakfast, Severus' day was unlikely to improve. _What would have been wrong with DADA?_ he asked himself for the umpteenth time. He stepped through the open classroom door quietly and scanned the small number of students who had qualified for his class.

Granger and Potter were seated so close to where he stood that he could hear their conversation.

"What are you going to do for your Potions project, Hermione?" asked Potter light heartedly. "Cure Lycanthropy?"

Severus couldn't contain the sneer that twisted his face. The boy's ignorance was demonstrably larger than even he had supposed.

"Don't be ridiculous, Harry!" laughed Granger in reply. "I couldn't even brew Wolfsbane! Let alone improve it!"

Her response was marginally mollifying, but not enough to check the bubble of irritation and anger that blossomed at Potter's insanely inappropriate suggestion. Severus had to restrain the urge to thwack the boy on the back of his head as he swept past. His sudden presence silenced the students immediately, and by the time Severus reached the front of the room and span around, they stood in neat rows behind their seats. Severus scanned the assembled faces slowly, folding his arms across his chest and burying his hands in the folds of his teaching robes.

"Congratulations." Severus deadpanned. "I own myself surprised at the considerable number who have made it through to NEWT-level Potions—particularly given the lack of natural talent I find before me.

"The true potioneer is forged in the steaming heat of the cauldron and through the purifying process of experimentation. For you, however, that option is not available. The general incompetence of the student body has led the Ministry to insist on a strictly theoretical investigation of specific ingredients; they saw the possibility of death as problematic. Thus, each student will be assigned a topic on which he or she will produce an impeccably detailed report covering the properties, reactions, and contraindications of the assigned matter. The instructions are on the board."

Severus waved his wand, and spiky silver script appeared on the far right hand blackboard, explaining the requirements of the research projects.

"Do I make myself clear?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," chorused the students obediently.

"Good," he replied, letting an altogether emotionless smile curl one corner of his mouth. "Why are you not copying this down?"

There was a sudden flurry of movement as the class pulled out pieces of parchment and snatched up their quills. Severus stepped down from the teachers' podium and strode towards the closest table.

"Mr. Malfoy," he commanded.

"Sir?"

"For your assignment, you will investigate Runespoor Eggs."

"Very good, sir."

Draco bent his head gracefully in acknowledgement and wrote the words, "Runespoor Eggs," neatly across the top of his notes. Severus turned to the next student.

Potter and Granger, by dint of their placement in the classroom, were left till last. Harry Potter, for once, was easy to deal with.

"Cerulian Amber," he said, pausing to observe with narrowed eyes as the irritating boy wrote it down. The substance was the main ingredient in high-quality broom wax, which should pique some interest at the very least.

Finally, he turned towards Granger; she was practically vibrating in anticipation of her project.

"For you, Miss Granger," he drawled, focussing on the dungeon wall two feet behind her head, "wartcap mushrooms."

For the briefest second, Severus could feel the shape and texture of Granger's shock, before her Occlumency shields slammed up and there was just the raw mass of emotional energy emanating from the other students around them.

"Wart—" began Potter. Granger's hand closed around the sleeve of his robes and he ground to a halt, confusion writ large upon his face.

The single use of wartcap mushrooms was in their dried, ground form, in which they were efficacious against warts. The assignment would take Hermione Granger approximately thirty-five minutes—assuming that she took the time to make a neat copy of her work. It was a complete travesty to give a student of her calibre such a basic ingredient. Severus gave their table a thin-lipped smile and swept back towards his desk.

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><p>Later that evening, an hour or so before curfew, there was a knock at his office door. Severus couldn't control the lurch of his heart.<p>

"Come in."

Of course it wasn't Granger, and Severus scowled his disappointment at a nervous looking Jocelyn Malfoy.

"Good evening, sir." Jocelyn scuffed her way over to the chair in front of his desk and sat uninvited, her shoulders slouched unbecomingly.

Severus straightened his own spine reflexively.

"Sit up straight," he snapped.

Jocelyn hesitated a long moment and then did as directed, a mulish expression on her face.

"Miss Malfoy," he said, fury bubbling under his voice, "I have no interest in whether your outward behaviour reflects well on your family name or the ideals of the society in which you now find yourself, but I do care about the reputation of Slytherin House and the respect you show the school uniform that you are lucky enough to wear. Your father has many faults, but his manners are not among them. You do yourself no favours by behaving as a sulky, spoiled teenager."

Jocelyn had stiffened as he spoke, but she made no response.

"Within Hogwarts and in all places where you might be seen to represent the school or your house I expect you to behave with all of the charm, good humour and social elegance that I know you to be capable of. Do I make myself clear?"

Jocelyn's eyes dropped to the edge of the table top as she considered her response. Eventually, she pulled a wry face.

"Yes, sir," she responded as evenly as possible.

There was still a hint of recalcitrance in her voice, but since Severus had never yet known someone to become honestly cheerful because they'd been told to be, he let it go.

"What do you want, Jocelyn?" he asked, his return to her given name signalling his acceptance of her capitulation.

The girl pulled a piece of folded parchment from her pocket and slid it across the desk to him. It was her Hogsmeade permission slip, and it was unsigned. He couldn't imagine why Lucius or Narcissa hadn't signed it for her and he had inhaled in order to ask that very question when Jocelyn spoke.

"I hoped that you would sign it," she said diffidently. "After all, you are my guardian."

Severus dropped his eyes to the paper. "Parent or Guardian," the words were written clearly in burgundy ink. He was her guardian, and a poor one he'd been thus far. He wondered what else Jocelyn might want him to do.

It felt vaguely disloyal towards Lucius, but that didn't stop Severus from lifting his quill carefully and signing the permission slip with a discreet flourish. Drawing his wand, he sent the form winging across the room, to fold itself into the filing cabinet in the appropriate place.

Jocelyn met his gaze and gave him a small but genuine smile. He saw some of the tension leave her shoulders.

"What else can I do for you?" he asked.

"Can I ask your advice?"

Severus leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers together. "Of course."

"It's just . . . I want to try out for the Quidditch team, but I don't want Draco to let me in just because he's my brother. Or for anyone to think that's why."

"Malicious tongues will wag regardless of the truth. The only way to put an end to such talk is to outfly the competition by a significant margin." Severus cocked his head. "Are you any good?"

Jocelyn shrugged and pulled a face. "I'm pretty good," she replied. "You could help me train," she added in a voice that was slightly too offhand. "That way you'd see for yourself. Besides, it's pretty hard to practice alone."

The suggestion hung heavy in the air, burdened by the weight of Jocelyn's desire. She wanted to practice Quidditch with him. _Like_, he dared to voice the thought to himself, _a parent might._ Well, he was her guardian—_in loco parentis_—and he wanted to teach her what little he knew. He'd fought for her last year, when her life and his were at stake. He could fight for her this year, too, when the stakes were different, but perhaps just as important.


	10. Chapter 9: Lessons

Chapter Nine: Lessons

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Once again, this is posting sans beta. But hey, it's still the holidays (barely). My apologies for the errors. xo g

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><p>Hermione had missed Hogwarts terribly, and yet now she was back, the ache persisted. It was as if all the things she'd most looked forward to had evaporated. It wasn't just that the surface of the castle was marked in myriad ways by the battle it had witnessed, or that Hermione had managed Outstanding NEWTs in most of her favourite subjects (leaving her timetable significantly leaner and considerably less interesting). It wasn't even that she missed the people who had died—which she did—or that others, such as her roommate, Lavender, seemed irrevocably changed. The worst of it was the jittery panic that she couldn't seem to control, or perhaps the guilty ache that overwhelmed her whenever Hermione realised that she'd forgotten, even momentarily, about the terror and the pain.<p>

Harry and Ron were different, too. Not that Hermione had expected them to be just the way they always had, of course. They'd all gone through too much the previous year for that to be possible.

Harry, for his part, was too serious. Most of the time he was the resolute, grown-up young man he'd become at Shell Cottage, but he also seemed to have closed down on the inside, and he could be regularly caught out making depressed puppy eyes at Ginny. He got irritable, too, and only Ron seemed to have the ability to snap him out of it.

Indeed, Ron, in contrast, seemed too cheerful. It was as if he'd assigned himself the task of keeping everybody's spirits up, clinging slightly too desperately to the maxim that they all needed to get along. He gave out numerous hugs, he jollied people along. Over the summer he'd cooked copious quantities of delicious-if-stodgy food and fed it to people.

His tactics worked. Hermione had watched how Molly blossomed under the stream of her youngest son's attention and culinary assistance. She saw how Harry could be coaxed into smiles and laughter by Ron's antics, often with Neville's help. She acknowledged how helpful it was to her when Ron slung an arm around her shoulders, or touched her back reassuringly, or even when he pressed her against the wall and snogged her with an urgency that soothed something in her soul. But she was still worried about him.

He wouldn't talk about Fred, or about George. He wouldn't talk about the battle, or about killing Fenrir Greyback. He wouldn't talk about his relationship with Hermione—beyond whispered exhortations not to leave him and not to push him any faster or further than he could manage right now.

And why didn't he want to sleep with her? It wasn't normal for a boy of his age to want to kiss and kiss and kiss and yet do nothing further, was it? Hermione thought that was supposed to be a girl thing.

Not that she minded. Or, no . . . she did mind. But at the same time, she wasn't really sure what she wanted. She guessed it was probably best to take it slow, since the whole thing confused her so much.

If only she could stop thinking about Snape, things with Ron might be just fine!

Hermione sighed. Glancing at her watch, she began to gather up the Transfiguration books she'd been staring at for the last half an hour; if she didn't get a move on, she'd be late for her first Animagus lesson with McGonagall.

Whenever Hermione had imagined being back at Hogwarts, time with Snape had figured heavily. The few days she'd spent at Spinner's End and the companionship of their trip to Melbourne had done nothing to disabuse her of the idea. While there was no pressing reason for their private lessons to continue, Hermione, somehow, had failed to realise that they had long since come to an end. Even that might have been bearable if Snape had deigned to look at her.

Right up until the point at which Snape had assigned her wartcap mushrooms as her Potions assignment, Hermione had maintained her conviction that he couldn't really be ignoring her, but now the harsh truth of his behaviour was impossible to avoid. As she shouldered her way past the Fat Lady and out into the corridor, that awful moment in the dungeon revisited her. Hermione had wracked her brains in the attempt to work out whether she'd somehow offended her prickly Potions professor, but came back empty handed. Still, since the order meeting in which Snape and Fawkes had spectacularly saved everyone's lives, he hadn't met her eye once. Ever since school started . . .

Hermione stopped abruptly at that thought, attracting loud condemnation from a student who had been walking behind her.

_Was that it? Was it something to do with school?_

Making her way down a flight of stairs that conveniently swung her way, Hermione pondered the possible ramifications of being back at school: _Does he know about my crush?_ That was well within the realms of possibility, although the mere thought left Hermione flushed with embarrassment. The more she dwelt on the idea, the more likely it seemed.

_He knows that I have a crush and now he's trying to avoid me. How humiliating._

It didn't make the ache of missing him any easier. And she couldn't exactly talk to him about it, either. She didn't know what to do.

Arriving at the gargoyle outside the Headmistress' office, Hermione took a few deep breaths to calm herself down. "Peterbald," she said finally, and the gargoyle stepped aside. The staircase rumbled reassuringly to life and carried her up to McGonagall's office.

"Good afternoon, Hermione. Please have a seat." Professor McGonagall gave Hermione a tight smile. "Tea?"

"Yes, please, Professor."

Hermione had a steaming cup of tea and her choice of several shortbreads before the conversation continued.

"Now," remarked McGonagall, "can I assume that you have read the books I assigned on the elementals of Animagus transformation?"

"Yes, absolutely." Hermione nodded earnestly.

"Excellent. At the very least, then, it should be clear why I wanted you to wait until your final year before attempting the auto-transfiguration?"

The readings had articulated at some length the dangers of auto-transfiguration during and before puberty, and Hermione nodded her agreement.

"I should also clarify" added McGonagall, "that, in general, the raw power of the witch or wizard transforming affects the size of the animal achieved in the Transfiguration process."

The books Hermione had read hadn't stated the matter in such bald terms—they'd been more focussed on issues of core personality traits and the relative accuracy of anthropomorphic synchronicity.

"So," hypothesised Hermione curiously, "we can assume that James Potter and Sirius Black were stronger wizards than Peter Pettigrew?"

"Precisely."

_Well, that certainly helps to explain Rita Skeeter's bug!_

"Of course," explained McGonagall, "once the Animagus form is achieved, it changes only as the caster ages, ails or heals. But the developmental point at which the spell is first attempted can have large ramifications on the animal form."

Hermione nodded her understanding. She'd seen Sirius change often enough to know that his dog form had been emaciated or glowing with health in direct proportion to the way the man himself appeared.

"Sometimes, of course, size can be rather problematic." An oddly indulgent smile tugged at one corner of McGonagall's prim mouth. "Albus, for example, transformed only four times in his entire life!"

"Professor Dumbledore?" asked Hermione surprised. "He wasn't, I mean, I didn't know he was an Animagus. I checked the registry once and there were only seven this century . . ." She trailed off at McGonagall's raised eyebrows and the unmistakable humour that sparkled in the older woman's eyes. "Oh." Hermione had to smile at herself, too. "He would have been registered last century, wouldn't he?"

"Correct, Miss Granger." Her eyes sparkled.

"If magical strength correlates to size, his Animagus form must have been large indeed!"

McGonagall leant over the desk conspiratorially. "He really did make the most magnificent dragon I have ever seen." She smirked at Hermione's look of astonishment. "He showed me one evening out on the Quidditch pitch; transforming inside would have been completely impossible."

_A dragon?_ Animagi were rare in and of themselves, those that transformed into magical creatures rarer still. To be sure, Dumbledore was the most powerful wizard in living memory. If anyone had such a form, it would have been him.

"Do you have any preconceived notions about your own form, Hermione?"

"Well, won't my Animagus form be an otter?"

"An otter?" McGonagall seemed genuinely surprised at the suggestion.

"Yes . . . because of my Patronus," clarified Hermione.

"Hmm." McGonagall pursed her lips and examined Hermione over the top of her glasses. "Miss Granger," she began.

Hermione realised that, as with Professor Snape, she could assess her position in Professor McGonagall's standings by the older woman's use of her formal name.

"Do you believe that an otter is a true expression of your inner most self?"

"I, er . . ." Hermione hated the feeling associated with not knowing the right answer. "But don't most Animagi have matching Patronuses?"

"Often they do, Miss Granger, but Patronuses can change, whereas Animagi forms cannot. One reflects an individual's strongest feelings of self-worth, the other reveals a facet of their immutable core; they don't necessarily match." McGonagall paused and sipped at her tea. "Let me ask you a question: when you first learnt to cast a Patronus, what was the image of strength and protection that you focussed on?"

"Harry and Ron," she replied promptly even as her brow furrowed, adding, "I thought I was supposed to focus on a happy thought?"

"Am I right in thinking that you learnt to cast a Patronus from Mr Potter?" Hermione nodded. "And he, in turn, learnt the skill from Professor Lupin in his third year?" Hermione nodded again. "Well, I can't imagine that Remus bothered with the finer theoretical details; at thirteen, Potter wasn't likely to have listened." McGonagall bit into a shortbread and swallowed her mouthful before continuing. "Remind me to lend you my copy of _Self-Defence that Comes from Within_ when you leave today, for now, I shall offer only a brief summary.

"Let's begin with your own Patronus: what characteristics does your otter bring to mind?"

Hermione loved her otter. She loved the way it tumbled and twisted, gambolled and played around.

"It's playful, cheerful, happy, loving. Relaxed."

"Indeed." McGonagall settled her glasses more securely on the bridge of her nose. "Hermione, it does not surprise me that your fun-loving Patronus was conjured by thoughts of your two best friends; nor do I hold it as coincidence that 'otter' rhymes with 'Potter' or that Mr Weasley lives on the River Otter, just outside Ottery St. Catchpole."

Hermione felt her lips form a silent "oh" of surprise. Her mind was buzzing with new thoughts, questions and realisations.

"Professor?" she queried. "How would that relate to the issues of 'strength,' 'protection' and 'self-worth' that you mentioned earlier?"

"Only you could know for sure, Hermione, but I would imagine that the happiness associated with the memory you conjured depended on feelings of belonging, or more properly, to a sense that you and your friendship was valuable to others. Furthermore, I would hypothesise that their friendship protects you against something."

_Loneliness_, supplied Hermione. McGonagall was regarding her with a look that was simultaneously sympathetic and stern. The silence between them stretched and became awkward.

"So," said Hermione, swallowing hard, "my otter Patronus symbolises the importance of that friendship." _Of course it did._ "Are you saying that if I'd focussed on a different memory, my Patronus would have taken another form?"

"Not necessarily, but if something or someone else became more important to you, and you cast a Patronus while thinking of that new thing or person, then your Patronus _might_ change."

"If I fell in love, for example," responded Hermione.

McGonagall shrugged. "Perhaps, perhaps not. The romantic notion of matching Patronus pairs provides the best known example of involuntary change, but the conceit is overused. It doesn't pay to put too much stock in the Patronus as an indication of true love. Plenty of wonderful couples have distinct Patronuses; it doesn't mean they don't love each other. On the contrary, it might mean that they're comfortable enough with their individual differences and personal strengths."

Did that make it more or less likely that she was in love with Ron? Hermione couldn't tell.

"In my case," continued McGonagall, "I first transformed young. I didn't learn to cast a Patronus until much later, and the two have always matched. But I do know that for at least one other Animagi—an acquaintance of mine with whom I have discussed this issue—the process of transformation taught him something important about himself, and that, in turn, became a source of strength that he found particularly useful in creating a new Patronus."

Hermione nodded. Their conversation hovered on a knife edge between highly theoretical and deeply personal. The point about her otter and the unlikely possibility that her Animagus form would mimic her Patronus had been well-taken several conversational twists previously, but she wasn't yet ready to give up the line of thought she was now engaged with.

"So," theorised Hermione aloud, "when Professor Snape's Patronus changed into a phoenix, it didn't necessarily mean that he'd fallen out of love with Harry's mother?"

McGonagall stiffened and sniffed disapprovingly. "No. Nor did it mean that he'd suddenly realised his deep and abiding love for Albus Dumbledore, as the _Prophet_ saw fit to suggest in print." The older woman fixed Hermione with a piercing stare. "Miss Granger," she said reprovingly, "it is not my practice to speculate on the personal lives of my colleagues in the company of a student."

Hermione opened her mouth to apologise, but McGonagall spoke again before she could find words to do so.

"There are a number of fallacies circulating in the popular press about the nature of Professor Snape's Patronus, however, and it would be well for you to recognise their theoretical inaccuracy. Before we proceed, I will require your word that you will be discreet with any personal information that comes to light." McGonagall paused expectantly.

Hermione swallowed. "Absolutely, Professor. You have my word."

"Very well." McGonagall gave Hermione an appraising glance and then pushed the biscuit tin towards her. "Have a shortbread," she ordered peremptorily, "you look peaky."

Obediently Hermione took a biscuit and bit into it; her throat was so dry that the sweet crumbs stuck to the back of her mouth.

"If and when Patronuses match as a function of romantic attachment," stated McGonagall clinically, "the gender of the Patronus matches that of the witch or wizard who cast the spell."

Hermione swallowed hard against the thick crumbs in the back of her throat.

"In the case of James and Lily Potter, for example, his Patronus was a stag, hers a doe. This is true even of same-sex couples: had the Potters been lesbian or gay, their Patronuses would have been two does or two stags. Am I making myself clear?"

"If Professor Snape's Patronus had indicated his love for Lily, it would have been a stag," summarised Hermione.

"Precisely. The exception, of course, involves transsexual individuals—Madam Rosmerta's Patronus was always a female flamingo, even when she was called Ross Merton and slept in the Hufflepuff boys' dormitory."

Professor McGonagall spoke as if the gossip she'd just revealed was common knowledge, but it took Hermione by complete surprise. For a long moment, the fact that Madam Rosmerta had transitioned chased every other thought from Hermione's mind. She pictured the barkeep's long, shapely legs, her tight, round arse, and impossible cleavage; in her mind's eye, Hermione saw Madam Rosmerta swing a full keg of butterbeer from the bar to the floor—catching the swell of muscle on her arms and noticing her disproportionally large hands for the first time. It all made sense. The thought of Ron's reaction were he ever to find out almost made her laugh aloud, and Hermione was forced to subsume her humour at the risk of seeming disrespectful.

McGonagall frowned over her glasses. "I certainly don't mean to imply that Severus is transgender!" she exclaimed sharply.

"No, Professor, of course not! I didn't think you did." Mention of her Potions professor brought Hermione immediately back to the topic at hand. "But why, then, was his Patronus a doe?"

"As I mentioned earlier, Hermione, it is a simplification to equate a Patronus with a 'happy thought.' More accurately, they are generated by imagery of positive self-worth—the exact opposite of the negative mental state caused by Dementors. I can only surmise—and this, Miss Granger, is speculation and nothing more—that Severus regarded his commitment to carry on in Lily Evans' place as the most important and positive step he had taken. As a consequence, his Patronus took the exact form that hers did."

"He swore to look after her son," whispered Hermione, more to herself than to her teacher, as she matched up McGonagall's analysis with the events she'd seen in the Pensieve.

"Indeed he did," agreed McGonagall. "Which he did because he loved her. It's a subtle distinction, to be sure, but an important one from a theoretical perspective."

_It's no wonder Snape's Patronus changed as soon as his promise to Dumbledore was fulfilled_, noted Hermione. _He escaped from the clutches of death, he started a new phase of his life, and his Patronus changed from a doe to a phoenix._

"Particularly," continued McGonagall briskly, "when the question at hand is the relationship of Patronuses to their caster and to the issue of Animagus forms."

"Well, you've certainly disabused me of the assumption that my Animagus form will be an otter," commented Hermione.

McGonagall graced her with a small smile. "I'm relieved to hear it," she noted dryly. "Just to be clear, Hermione, I do not anticipate you actually attempting the Animagus transfiguration until at least Christmas. Before that point is reached, you need to do a great deal more reading and to practice the finer details of self/object and object/animal transfigurations. Now, for your lesson next week, I want you to read this book, _Self-Defence that Comes from Within_, and I expect to see three feet of parchment on the relationship of Patronuses to their caster and the possible changes the corporeal form can undergo. Any further questions?"

Moments later, Hermione was standing in front of the gargoyle once again. And she felt just as shaken as she had before her lesson. Talking about Snape had done nothing to mitigate her desire to see him, and she was sorely tempted to go down to his office and wander past in the hope that they might cross paths serendipitously. The thought of what he might say, though, and the house points he might take held her back; she couldn't bear for him to sneer at her and ignore her right at this moment. Instead she turned her feet towards the only place she'd always been certain of her welcome. Minutes later, she knocked at Vector's door.

* * *

><p>Everything about Vector's office was achingly familiar—from the scrawled walls of calculations to the mingled scent of coffee and chalk dust.<p>

"Hermione! Welcome!" exclaimed Vector with evident delight. "I have been hoping you might drop by."

Hermione settled herself into the chair she'd always used and couldn't help drawing her feet up onto the seat and hugging her knees.

"I've missed Arithmancy so much," she confessed. She felt suddenly overwhelmed.

Vector gave her a knowing glance, her mouth curved just at the corners. "Arithmancy, my dear, has missed you. Coffee?"

"Yes, please."

"Just because you've finished your NEWTs doesn't mean you have to be finished with Arithmancy, Hermione," remarked Vector as she spooned coffee into her briki. "Have you given any thought to an Arithmancy masters?"

"Of course!"

The corner of Vector's eyes crinkled at her forceful response and Hermione blushed.

"And? What was it that you decided?"

Hermione felt suddenly awkward. "I would very much like to complete my masters in Arithmancy," she managed.

"Excellent, Hermione. I have every confidence that you could meet the challenges of a mastery program." Vector paused for a second as if expecting Hermione to speak further, before prompting her with further questions. "And what kind of topic do you have in mind? Have you given any thought to potential advisors?"

Hermione watched Vector stir the foaming briki with the exactitude of frequent habit. As she removed the spoon from the pot, Vector held it vertically above the hot coffee so that the drip from the end fell back in rather than making a mess. When the coffee foamed a second time, only a tiny movement was necessary to lower the spoon and stir again.

Hermione tried to estimate how much longer Vector would be engaged with making the coffee. How long until she raised her eyes to Hermione's face and repeated the question?

All too quickly, Vector was pouring the coffee out into tiny ceramic cups and spooning out the pale foam equally between them.

_Perhaps there is something unprofessional about doing your mastery work with your high school teacher_, wondered Hermione. _Perhaps Professor Vector doesn't want to work with me and is trying to tell me in the nicest possible way._

When Vector settled back in her own chair, cup cradled to her chest with one hand and an open expression on her face, Hermione took a deep breath.

"Do you have any advice?" she asked in turn, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Follow your heart. Honestly." Vector smiled. "Of course, this is a piece of advice that I have given many, many times before, but in your case it rings particularly true. With your marks alone, you could have your choice of apprenticeships anywhere in the Wizarding World; given your current fame, even those teachers who might otherwise be wary of students who are too smart or too female would leap at the chance to link their name to yours."

Though complimentary and cynical in equal parts, the answer did nothing to reassure Hermione. She couldn't help screwing her face up in disappointment. She didn't want to be admitted to an apprenticeship purely because she'd helped Harry survive a year on the run.

"Is it . . . desirable," she asked without lifting her eyes from the consideration of her cup of coffee, "to move to another location to continue studying?"

In her less-than-happy state she felt suddenly convinced that there was some sinister connection between Snape's unfriendly behaviour and Vector's unlooked for suggestion that she should study with someone else.

"Not at all," replied Vector slowly, her head titled inquisitively to one side. "Hermione," she added in a sharper tone, "perhaps I should make it absolutely clear that I would consider it a professional and personal pleasure to work with you myself."

"Oh!" With that, Hermione burst into tears. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" she asked, rubbing rather ineffectually at her eyes with her free hand.

Vector conjured a handkerchief and produced a plate of crumbly sweet biscuits from somewhere in her desk.

"I'm sorry, Hermione," she said once Hermione had her tears under control. "It didn't occur to me. In fact, quite the opposite: I didn't want you to feel any sense of obligation towards me. This is your future we're talking about and you need to make the decision that's best for you, not the decision that I—or anyone else—might prefer." Vector glanced down at her coffee and swirled the thick grounds around the base of the cup. "There's a big difference between school work and graduate work. You are at the point now where you need to choose a teacher who specialises in the branch of Arithmancy that you yourself want to work with. At the higher level, you're tying yourself to a subject and a methodology when you choose the person you will study with."

Vector looked up and met Hermione's gaze. She pulled a wry face. "I'm not doing a very good job of making myself clear. The kind of work I do," she said, gesturing towards the wall of calculations with her coffee cup, "is strongly grounded in multi-variable probability theory, with a particular focus: conflict. The subject of my work is strife and deceit, courage and panic. My calculations inform decisions that are often, quite literally, a matter of life or death.

"And, you! You've just rescued the Wizarding world! You would have every right to spend the rest of your life in the blissful contemplation of elegant mathematics. You could work on the fractal growth patterns of the Angelhair fern family under Professore Otto Ortolano in Florence or calculate the orbital trajectory of bodies through Apparition space with any one of the wizards at NASA." Vector paused and drew her brows together thoughtfully. "Not that I mean to imply that such a career wouldn't also be perfectly legitimate for someone who hadn't already saved the world," she added.

Hermione leant forwards and placed her empty coffee cup on the desk with a click, interrupting whatever Vector would have said next. She didn't need to hear any more.

"Last year," she began, choosing her words carefully, "was quite easily the worst year of my life. And the worst moment in the worst year was when the numbers started to fail me. We were so cut off from what was happening, without any solid information on what anyone else was doing, that the formulas refused to solve. There were too many unknowns.

"I've never felt more powerless." Hermione looked up into Professor Vector's deeply sympathetic eyes. "It would be nice to think that with Voldemort dead, evil is gone from the world, but it's just not true. Even once the Elder wand is destroyed that won't be the case." Hermione turned her gaze to the blackboard behind Vector's head, and the numbers that were scrawled on it. "Everyone's tired right now, but I'm not ready to give up." Wary of saying anything that would sound ridiculously heroic, Hermione shrugged. "Besides, the numbers are still elegant, no matter what they're dealing with."

Vector had settled back in her chair and she regarded Hermione for a long moment, her head tilted to one side. Finally, she smiled. "I'm going to let you take me on as a teacher for a one-year probationary period," she said. "After that time, you can re-evaluate. If you want to continue, we can do so. If you want to change teachers and subjects, I'll write you a glowing reference. Deal?"

Hermione nodded, smiling almost despite herself at the compliments to her work. "Deal," she answered firmly, stretching across Vector's desk to grasp her hand and shake it.

"Wonderful! The first thing you can do, of course, is to re-familiarise yourself with the matrix. If there's any chance it can help us work out how to destroy the wand or protect Harry, there's a lot of work to be done."

A small bubble of happiness pushed up against Hermione's breastbone, and she reached for a quill and piece of parchment with a real sense of pleasure.

* * *

><p>AD: Good grief! TWO CHAPTERS in LESS THAN A WEEK! Surely that deserves a review in and of itself? And the chapter, what did you think? Can I manage a sentence with less than two pieces of punctuation? I think not!

[Edited to add: Ha ha, it seems that FFN automatically deletes the repeated punctuation. You'll have to just extrapolate my excitement from the general tone.]


	11. Chapter 10: Trials

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 10: Trials

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

Once again, this isn't beta-ed, but it is up. So I propose a compromise: I'll post chapters (hopefully at a fairly frequent rate) and you, in return, will promise to be gentle when pointing out my grammatical errors. Do we have a deal?

Also, I LOVED every SINGLE one of your reviews. They warmed my heart!

* * *

><p>Severus dreamt about werewolves. It began as an old, familiar nightmare: his younger self wandering through the grounds of Hogwarts, long after curfew, with odd branches catching at his robes, and the first hint of moonrise sending shafts of light glinting through the trees. He'd taken the long way round, skirting the forest on his way to the Whomping Willow, with only his fierce sense of righteous malice protecting him from outright terror. Still, each rustle, each cracking twig heightened his nervousness. He wasn't scared of the Forbidden Forest, not this close to the school, but he was worried that Black had laid an elaborate trap. He <em>thought<em> he'd overheard Black and Pettigrew without them knowing, but it wouldn't be the first time they'd tried to ambush him—four against one.

By the time he'd worked his way around to the Willow, the moon had risen clear of the treeline, and the trunk and her branches were clearly visible in stark silver; the leaves shimmered gently as the tree rocked back and forth. The light was so bright that Severus had no trouble picking out the characteristically shaped knot on the trunk.

_Would Black really have included those details if he was just talking with Pettigrew?_

Anxiety returned in full force. Severus glanced around in all directions.

_Are the Marauders here? Under Potter's cloak? Laughing at me?_

Severus weighed the possibility of sneaking off and returning only hours later when they might well have given him up as a lost cause. But something about the strategy seemed cowardly.

_Who cares if they are waiting?_ he asked himself. _I'll fight them! I can take them on alone!_

Gripping his wand rather more tightly than was customary, Severus Levitated a small stick and sent it flying towards the willow trunk. As Black had claimed, the branches froze. Steeling himself, Severus sprinted for the roots of the tree. He reached the tree without attack and, as Black had said, there was a shallow tunnel that was easy to see once he was close. Before the branches could leap back into action, Severus scrambled inside.

Once out of the reach of the Whomping Willow, Severus lit his wand and surveyed the passage ahead. With one eye on the opening behind him, where he could still see the willow's branches shifting against the night sky, he Levitated a small pebble and sent it zigzagging down the passage ahead. The tunnel was so narrow that had his Gryffindor classmates been concealed under their cloak, the pebble would have struck against them and given them away.

The coast was clear.

Severus made his way forward carefully, bent awkwardly to avoid the low ceiling and stopping every dozen yards or so to send a pebble skipping forwards and backwards. Through it all, some part of his mind—anticipating triumph—was playing the conversation he'd overheard on endless repeat:

"_Don't you think it queer, Wormy, that no-one but us has discovered the Whomping Willow's tunnel to Hogsmeade?"_

"_But they couldn't!"_

_The panic in Pettigrew's voice was a reassurance to Severus; the ingratiating fool couldn't act that well._

"_Of course they could!" Black slung his arm around Pettigrew's shoulders and the little cretin almost creamed his pants in delight. "Imagine: a couple of lads playing at annoying the tree. All they have to do is make their Levitated twig or stone hit the knot that's shaped a bit like a raven, and BOOM! The branches suddenly still. Happy as you like, they wander over. The entrance is easy to see once you're close enough."_

"_Hush, Padfoot! Someone might hear you!"_

_Black chuckled into the smaller boy's ear, and Pettigrew let out a nervous, high-pitched giggle._

"_You worry too much," said Black dismissively. "Merlin! We'd all be screwed if someone did follow the tunnel to its end and find out what we're up to, wouldn't we? All of us: expelled!"_

"_Not all of us!" Again, it was the sharpness of Pettigrew's concern that leant the whole affair a patina of truth._

"_All of us," replied Black with conviction. "You knew what you were getting yourself into, Wormtail. We're all of us in this together."_

Having them all expelled was a delicious prospect, and one that Severus couldn't let slip by. He'd suspected for a long time that they were up to something dangerous, he just needed the proof.

Severus heard the first noise from up ahead when, by his calculation, he had to be getting close to Hogsmeade. While it came as a shock, it wasn't scary in and of itself: a muffled banging, an odd roaring noise. Severus slowed his pace, careful not to make a noise and give away his approach. As he got closer, though, the noises became more and more disturbing.

The banging was violent and seemingly random. There were scratching sounds, too, and the sound Severus had first characterised as a "roaring" noise sounded positively animalistic. There was a guttural growl and occasional howls of pain. Severus found himself less and less willing to press onwards. His palms were sticky with sweat.

As he paused to check the passage ahead for hidden assailants, Severus heard faint scrambling noises behind him, in addition to the terrifying noise of whatever lay ahead. Someone was coming, and they weren't taking the time to move with stealth.

Panic rising, Severus considered his options. Trapped behind, forwards was the only possibility—and the noise from that direction almost froze him in his tracks.

"Snape!"

Potter's voice decided him. It was a trap. The unknown variable up ahead was a much more inviting proposition than the sure humiliation of waiting to let Potter and his gang catch him here in the narrow tunnel. Throwing his cautious approach to the wind, Snape turned resolutely forwards and began to move as quickly as he could.

Not two hundred yards later, he reached a steep set of stairs that led to a narrow landing. Here at least he could stand upright, and the end of the tunnel was in sight. A thin opening was blocked by a firm metal gate, and on the far side, a gloomy, damaged room was visible. The animal noises were much louder, but when Severus pressed his face up against the grate, he could see that the room beyond was empty.

Potter, presumably backed up by his pals, was gaining.

"Snape! Snape! You MUST stop! STOP! LISTEN!"

Severus decided to risk his chance in the open space of the room. There he'd be able to fight much more easily; perhaps even make his escape. The animal would pose just as much of a danger to Potter as it did to him.

"_Alohomora!"_ To Severus' relief, the gate grate sprang open with a dull click.

"SNAPE!"

Potter was close. Too close. Severus dodged around a destroyed couch and made for the only door.

At that same moment, the animal noises grew exponentially louder. On frantic, scrabbling feet a huge, slavering wolf burst through the door and threw itself towards Severus, who pulled back in horror.

The wolf was thin, but muscular. His eyes gleamed a dull red, his teeth were long and dirty. Never had Severus felt such terror. Never had he witnessed such pure, unadulterated animal fury.

Automatically, Severus threw up his wand hand, but he couldn't move fast enough, he didn't have time.

The rank, filthy smell of the wolf filled his lungs. In a flash of terribly awareness, Severus saw the ridges of its soft palate as the wolf's mouth opened wide. One enormous paw slammed into his chest, and the weight of the blow sent Severus tumbling to the floor. Only by chance did he keep hold of his wand.

From nowhere—impossibly—help arrived. In the second before wicked teeth closed on Severus' flesh, a huge antlered beast cannoned into the side of the wolf, tossing it across the room. Though stunned at his reprieve, Severus didn't need to be told to move. His heels fought for purchase on the grotty floor; he heard the sound of his robe tearing as he pushed up and back towards the tunnel entrance.

The wolf snarled—a long, dangerous sound—but the stag was pacing before it, his antlers weaving threateningly, holding the wolf at bay.

Severus made it back into the safety of the tunnel, his heart racing, an uncomfortable warmth in his crotch where he'd pissed himself with fright. His hands were shaking with adrenaline, and he fumbled at the gate, desperate to slam it shut and lock the werewolf out of the tunnel. As it began to swing shut, Severus heard a thundering of hooves. He glanced up to see the stag racing towards him.

_But he won't fit_.

The huge antlers would never fit through the narrow gap. Behind him, the wolf was in hot pursuit. Severus stood frozen with indecision and blank incomprehension.

_He won't fit._

At the very last second, the firm, impossibly real body of the stag melted and morphed. It was James Potter who threw himself through the gate, sliding along for a yard on his stomach under the force of his entrance.

"The gate, Snape! Shut the gate!"

Severus slammed the gate shut and heard the click of the lock engage. An infinitesimally short moment later, the heavy body of the wolf thudded into the metal grille; it shook but the hinges held.

In his hurry to shut the gate, Severus had slipped to his knees, and he stared out at the ferocious and frustrated animal, his humiliation complete. James Fucking Potter had just saved his life.

Potter's hand plucked at his shoulder.

"Come on, we've got to get out of here. If we move further into the tunnel he won't be able to follow us, even if the gate breaks."

_It's Lupin_, realised Severus belatedly. The odd disappearances, the frequent "illnesses," they all made sudden sense. _And Potter's an Animagus. He saved my fucking life._

Up until that point, the dream had unfolded just the way it always had. But as Severus rose on shaky legs and turned to face Potter, the acrimonious argument that always followed failed to take place. Instead of the face of James Potter, Severus found himself looking into the green eyes of Potter's son.

"What are you going to do for your Potions project, Professor?" asked Potter brightly, an odd, admiring light in his eyes. "Cure Lycanthropy?"

Severus woke with peals of Hermione Granger's laughter ringing in his ears.

Although it was early, Severus threw back his covers and climbed out of bed. From long experience he knew that he wouldn't find sleep easily after such a dream. Instead, he pulled on his running clothes and let himself out the side door. The sun had yet to rise, but the sky was greying and there was just enough to light to see by. With time on his side, Severus ran long, leaving the grounds completely and tracing a meandering loop out past Hogsmeade. The movement cleared his head, shaking free the terrors of the Shrieking Shack. Over and over again, however, he heard Potter's naive question in his mind's ear. _"Cure Lycanthropy?"_

The boy was hugely ignorant. Wolfsbane wouldn't cure Lycanthropy, it couldn't. Not even in combination with other ingredients. All the potion managed to do was to tame the wolf, not destroy the nasty parasitical magic that pulsed through the werewolf's blood.

Damocles had been bloody lucky to stumble on the correct proportions of the finished brew, and had the poor sod's wife not been bitten, he might never had made the attempt in the first place. He certainly wouldn't otherwise have had a pet werewolf on whom to trial and perfect the recipe.

_No_, mused Severus, _the real problem is the difficulty of the potion itself._

As a solution, the Wolfsbane Potion worked well. Provided one had a source of the expensive aconite flowers and a qualified Potions master on hand to prepare Wolfsbane each month, the disease could be treated indefinitely. The flowers however, like the fabled Japanese Pufferfish, were deadly if improperly treated; and the finished potion lasted no longer than a few days. Each month it had to be brewed fresh.

If only the potion were more stable it could be mass produced and shipped. The witch or wizard who managed that particular breakthrough would be famous—and rich. Governments all over the world would pay considerable sums of money for a way to treat their Lycanthropy patients with a sustainable, long-term solution.

By the time Severus stripped off his sweaty clothes and stepped under the shower, he had decided to spend some time experimenting with the Wolfsbane potion. Maybe, just maybe, he could make some small but important modification that might put an end to nightmares about Lupin and Fenrir.

After a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, black pudding and fried tomatoes, Severus wandered down to the Quidditch pitch to meet Jocelyn for her promised lesson. It was a Saturday morning, and the majority of the student body was still asleep, but still the pitch was busy: Jocelyn was not the only student hoping to squeeze in a little extra practice before the trials.

Hooch was there, keeping order, and Severus noticed the unwelcome presence of Viktor Krum—surrounded, as always, by a small crowd of star-struck students.

Severus was headed for Hooch when Jocelyn overtook him. She had Draco's old Nimbus 2001 under one arm and was wearing a pair of his old training robes, too. Before puberty had arrived, bringing with it some much needed extra inches and some breadth across his shoulders, Draco had been a fine-boned, delicate child. Now Jocelyn, with his haircut and his outgrown outfits was producing an odd, only slightly more feminine impersonation of her older brother—although the prominent "Mudblood Pride" badge marked a big difference.

"Good morning, sir," she said, slightly out of breath from having run to catch up with him.

"Good morning, Jocelyn." Snape looked her over carefully. "What position are you intending to try out for?"

Jocelyn shifted her weight uncomfortably. "Seeker," she admitted, screwing up her face.

Severus raised one eyebrow in surprise. "Just to clarify," he asked, "you're trying out for the position played by the team captain?"

Jocelyn huffed out a breath. "He only wanted to play seeker because Potter does; he'd be much more effective as Chaser. Besides, if I beat him out for Seeker, then no-one can say that letting me on the team was nepotism."

"Very well." Severus turned on his heel and jerked his head towards Hooch. "Come along."

Hooch was steadfastly refusing to allow several very young looking Ravenclaws take out a set of Bludgers without at least one capable Beater to keep an eye on them.

"Nothing doing. You can take the training balls and be happy with that; no-one is using the real equipment without proper supervision."

The Ravenclaws left, one with evident bad grace, and Hooch turned towards Severus.

"Morning, Snape. I didn't expect you to be out here flying in this circus." She glanced at his broom, but then turned her attention to Jocelyn. "Miss Malfoy," she said politely.

"Good morning, Madam Hooch," responded Jocelyn.

"We're after a Snitch, Hooch," said Severus.

"I can give you a training one, I've another couple—"

"Hooch," interrupted Severus, "I fully intend to provide adequate supervision."

Hooch grinned. "Fair enough. I was answering on autopilot." Hooch gave Jocelyn a considering look. "Trying out for Slytherin Seeker, are you?"

Jocelyn nodded.

"Can you fly?"

Jocelyn shrugged. "A bit."

"Well here's hoping that's modesty speaking, and not the unembellished truth. I'll give you a Snitch, but I warn you, there are several other groups playing with training balls and anyone of them is liable to snatch yours if they get a clear shot at it."

"Thank you."

"Thank Snape." Hooch crouched down to unlatch a crate of balls and expertly extracted the Snitch without letting it loose. She held it out to Severus, who took it; the feathers beat rapidly against the palm of his hand.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Hooch winked. "Mind you're done by 10:30," she called after them, "the Gryffindors have the pitch booked for their team tryouts."

Severus sent Jocelyn off to complete a couple of laps around the pitch for a warm up, and sent his own broom soaring up high enough to command a view of the grounds. The numerous groups of other players would make Jocelyn's lesson more of a challenge, but that was not necessarily a bad thing. With narrowed eyes, he watched her movement as she flew around the pitch.

Krum called a hello as she passed, and Jocelyn waved back. Severus wondered whether they'd flown together during Jocelyn's short stint in Bulgaria.

The girl moved well. Her posture was good: her shoulders relaxed and her touch on the broom seemingly deft. She neatly dodged a training Bludger sent spinning by one of the other students. It wasn't long before she was hovering before Severus, her face slightly flushed with exertion and excitement.

To begin with Severus had Jocelyn catch the Snitch at close quarters, setting it free in full view and letting her dive at once. As the session progressed he had her move slightly further away each time, and charmed a glowing count of how many seconds each catch took to hover beside him. Depending on her line of sight and the direction the Snitch took, some catches took much longer than others, but she had no trouble with her hand and eye co-ordination, even moving at speed; she took one or both hands off the handle without hesitation and never lost control of the broom.

"Turn around," he called eventually. Jocelyn did as she was bid, and Severus tossed the Snitch out over the pitch. After a few seconds of free fall, its little wings gained purchase, and the Snitch veered off towards one of the practicing groups. "You can turn back now," he shouted. "This time, the Snitch is even further away, and this time I'll be playing for the Snitch, too."

Jocelyn had flown a small loop to reverse her direction and she busied herself scanning the sky for any sign of the tiny golden ball. From the hour Snape had just spent watching her fly he knew himself to be no match in speed or agility, but he had years of flying experience and could play the obstructionist role of an outclassed Seeker with no trouble at all.

In his day, he'd been a decent Beater, and he'd flown often enough with Hooch in the years since. Even back when Severus was a student, Slytherin house had followed the sensible practice of having some wealthy benefactor purchase brooms for the entire team. No doubt the Gryffindors thought that Lucius had bribed his son onto the team; they never bothered to consider that the poorer members of the Slytherin team were thus on an equal level with the richest. For Severus, that intervention had been crucial. On a cheap broom he would never have made the team. It was a moral he'd quickly absorbed and had never stinted on the price of his own broom even now that he paid for them himself. Thus when Jocelyn dived suddenly, presumably having spotted the Snitch, he dropped after her mere seconds later.

Within moments he realised it was a feint, for Jocelyn's eyes were glued to the onrushing ground rather than some small, moving target somewhat higher up. Severus pulled out of the dive and hovered until she too righted herself, taking the opportunity to assume a particularly irritating position just over her head and shadowing her from there. Jocelyn managed to ignore him for a while, but he could see that she was starting to get bothered. After a few devious twists and turns that he followed without too much trouble, she cleverly led him through the middle of one of the practicing groups, shedding him when she curled around a bemused looking Hufflepuff Chaser and speeding off into the distance.

By the time Severus emerged from the aerial huddle, Jocelyn had gained a significant lead. Luckily for him, the Snitch chose precisely that moment to reappear—fractionally closer to where he was compared to her. Converging on the ball from different angles, Severus and Jocelyn arrived at almost exactly the same time; Severus was able to deploy his significant weight advantage to shoulder Jocelyn off track, and the Snitch fluttered away.

From that point onwards, it led them a merry—and exhilarating—chase. The several different groups of skirmishing players made for a fine training exercise, as Jocelyn and Severus had to dodge multiple sets of Quidditch balls along the way. Twice more she nearly had the ball, only to miss the catch because of Severus' dubiously legitimate moves. For his part, he employed every method he could think of to keep the better Seeker from catching the Snitch. Eventually, however, Jocelyn pulled off an extraordinary catch, taking both hands from her broomstick at once and bodily throwing herself towards Severus, her knees still wrapped tightly round her own mount. Her left hand knocked at the handle of his broom, pitching it downwards and sending him into a dive as her right fist closed triumphantly around the Snitch.

Severus looped upwards and drew level with Jocelyn as she managed to clamber back onto the top of her broom.

"Fly like that," he acknowledged with uncustomary enthusiasm, "and you just might make the team."

Jocelyn grinned. Her hair was windswept, and her cheeks pink with exertion. "Thanks," she replied. "That was amazing!"

Severus glanced at his watch and then out over the pitch. The other groups were returning to the ground, and it was almost time for the Gryffindor trials.

"Come," he directed with a jerk of his head. Jocelyn followed obediently as he swooped down to land near the training rooms.

Hooch was there, standing with Krum. She gave both Severus and Jocelyn a thoughtful, slightly-too-observant look as they walked over.

"Vunderful flying, Jocelyn!" exclaimed Krum. "Although you gave too much away with that first dive, the feint was obvious."

"Yeah," agreed Jocelyn. "Professor Snape made that abundantly clear when he stopped following me." She turned towards Severus for confirmation. "What gave it away?"

Severus said nothing, merely raising a long finger to the corner of his eye and indicating that it was her gaze he'd noticed.

"Malfoy," said Hooch, interrupting the conversation and placing a hand on Jocelyn's shoulder. "I want a word with you in the change rooms. Is now a good time?"

Jocelyn looked mildly taken aback but acquiesced. Hooch steered her away with only a parting nod for Severus, who frowned after them. Not only did he have no idea what Hooch was up to, he'd been abandoned to the irritating presence of Viktor Krum.

Krum, however, was no longer paying Severus any attention at all. Instead, he was focussed on the entrance gate.

"Hermione!" he shouted unexpectedly, waving with his entire arm. Grabbing his broom from where it leant against the wall of the changing rooms, he swung a leg over and flew a snaking path from where Severus stood to where Granger, both Weasleys and Potter had just walked out onto the pitch; Krum flew so low that he could have trailed his feet along the ground. The visual resemblance to a motorcycle was only strengthened when he twisted to a halt, the rear of his broom spinning out perpendicular to his flight path.

Severus scowled. He stalked off after his purported colleague, irritated beyond words by the other man's less-than-professional display. His anger had nothing to do with the fact that Hermione was the intended target of Krum's intentions. Of course it didn't.

"Happy birthday, Hermione!" exclaimed Krum, drawing his wand and showering her with a multitude of shimmering gold stars.

In other circumstances, the infuriated, jealous expression on Ronald Weasley's face would have provided Severus with not-inconsiderable enjoyment, but today he did little more than register the red blush that stained the skin behind his freckles.

"I would have expected a professor to be capable of a far more dignified display," snarled Severus, cutting across Granger's delighted thanks.

Krum stiffened. "Hermione is not my student," he replied defensively.

"That indignity, at least, we have been spared. I suppose we should feel grateful."

Krum's face hardened; gone was the open, animated expression he'd worn talking about Quidditch and greeting Hermione.

"Don't you have a time-sensitive and highly important project to work on?" asked Severus.

"I haff almost finished," said Krum. "In fact, I brought the first one for Hermione for her birthday." He fished in his pocket and extracted a flat silver button. "I'm sure you know vot to do with it," he commented as he pressed it into her hand.

Granger gave him an awkward smile. _Thanks_, she mouthed.

Severus let out a sigh through his nose and tilted his head back slightly to make the most of the few inches he had on Krum. "Next time it might be more strategic to hand them out in private." He shook his head for good measure. "I suggest you have the finished buttons on my desk by later this afternoon."

"Certainly, Severus," replied Krum, stressing his use of Severus' given name in an unsuccessful attempt to regain some authority. He gave Hermione an odd, almost formal bow in farewell and left.

"Don't you have team tryouts to see to?" asked Severus, turning the full force of his withering gaze on Potter and the Weasels. They scampered away with very little resistance and several apologetic glances aimed at Granger. When they were gone, there was an awkward silence between him and her. Severus was angry at himself, at Krum, and most unfairly, at Granger. He stared at her, daring her almost to turn and leave.

"Did you need me for some reason?" she asked after a long minute.

"No." He added cruelly, "I came to ensure that you didn't Confund anyone."

Granger's chin jerked as if she'd been struck. "I can assure you, Professor, I learnt that lesson long ago."

For a moment, Severus was tempted to apologise, but instead, when she turned and seated herself in the closest row of the stands, he followed behind her and sat down on the adjacent seat. He folded his hands into his robes and crossed his arms and legs tightly. Granger crossed her legs, too, in the opposite direction, and they sat there, their bodies pointed aggressively away from each other, the air between them positively crackling.

Severus watched as Hooch emerged from the changing rooms and spoke with Potter, and as Potter marshalled his recruits into some semblance of order.

Only minutes in, Longbottom made an appearance, jogging up towards where he and Granger sat.

"Hermione! I'm sorry I'm—" Longbottom censored whatever he was sorry for at the sight of his erstwhile enemy. "Good morning, Professor," he commented politely.

Severus didn't bother to do more than nod in reply.

"It's fine, Neville. Why don't you go and talk to Harry and Ron? I'm sure that they would appreciate your thoughts on the trials."

"Are you sure? I don't want to leave you alone on your birthday."

"But I'm not alone." Granger gestured jerkily towards the man beside her. "Professor Snape is here."

"Okay . . . if you're sure." Neville looked dubious, but he ran off as directed. "Call me if you need me," he shouted over his shoulder.

Severus and Granger sat out the rest of the trials without another word. At the finish, Severus rose and turned towards her.

"Congratulations, Miss Granger," he offered, his voice thick with malice. "It seems that you have gained some maturity with the passing of another year—at least relative to your younger self."

"Why, thank you, Professor," she responded, acknowledging his nastiness with a polite nod.

Severus walked from the Quidditch pitch as quickly as possible, fury pushing at the bones of his chest and shortening his breath.

Hooch caught at his upper arm as he swept past her.

"Hey, Severus! What's the matter?"

"Nothing is the matter. This is merely the nauseous after effects of having watched the Gryffindor team's deplorable attempt at organisation." Severus was about to storm away, when he pinned her with a question in turn. "What on earth was so important that you had to talk to Jocelyn in private?" he demanded.

Hooch raised her eyebrows and one corner of her mouth twitched up. "Are you asking in your position of guardian, or as my overly nosy, bad-tempered colleague?"

"Her guardian," replied Severus through his teeth.

Hooch leant closer. "That girl is going to be the first female Slytherin Quidditch player in twenty-seven years, Severus. I took the liberty of talking to her about an adequate sports bra. I also offered to help her devise a lifting regime suitable for a growing, thirteen-year-old girl; she's always going to be knocked off course if she plays someone of your height and weight, but most of the other seekers are fairly weedy. With a bit more muscle she'll have more chance of holding her own."

Deep down, Severus felt relieved and even grateful, but right now he was too angry to express any of that. And being shown to be paranoid did little to help his temper. He'd thank her later. Severus Snape tore his arm from Hooch's grip and stalked off back to the castle. The more points he was able to take from Gryffindor students between the pitch and his rooms, the better.

* * *

><p>AN: Such a lovely birthday present! :)


	12. Chapter 11: Tribulations

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 11: Tribulations

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Once again, this is the un-beta'ed original. I'm going to try to hit you guys up with a chapter a week (call it a New Year's resolution; 2013 is going to be year of the Phoenix Fire). All I ask in return is boundless reviews . . . I mean, really ;) is that too much to ask?

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><p>Hermione shuffled lower in her chair and stared blankly at her Potions homework. The sounds of the common room drifted around her. She was almost tempted to give up studying and join in Ron's conversation, but he was talking to Neville about Quidditch yet again—which wasn't a particularly exciting prospect. Neville, as was his wont, was listening intently and agreeing with most points of Ron's inexhaustible analysis.<p>

Just the other day at breakfast, when, for the umpteenth time, Ron was hashing out the best possible formations given the current batch of Chasers, Hermione had—rather snippily—asked why Neville was at all interested.

"_Why do you even care, Neville? You don't even play Quidditch." Hermione stuck her teaspoon into her soft-boiled egg rather more forcefully than was necessary._

"_I enjoy it," replied Neville, a dull red creeping up his cheeks. "I like to watch."_

"_Why don't you play, mate?" asked Ron as if the question had never occurred to him before. "You should have tried out for the team!"_

"_Oh, no!" Neville had turned even redder. "Me and flying is not a great combination. But I really do enjoy the sport for its own sake."_

"_I enjoy watching a good Quidditch match, too," replied Hermione coolly. "But that doesn't mean I want to talk about it all hours of the day."_

_Neville shrunk slightly in his chair. "Sorry," he muttered._

_Hermione felt an instant pang of remorse and she reached out and patted him rather ineffectually on the arm._

"_Better you than me," she said._

Neville had given her a wan smile and after a few moments he had returned to the conversation, this time at a much lower volume.

"What's up with Snape?" asked Harry, unexpectedly rousing himself from reverie. He'd been scowling into the fire, his legs stretched out and one foot balanced on top of the other.

"Why, what'd he do now?" asked Ron.

"Since the start of semester he's been almost civil to me, and a right bastard to Hermione."

"He has?" Ron turned from Harry to look at her searchingly. "I thought you two got on like, I dunno," he pulled a face as if getting on with Snape was a horrific mental image, "like two centaurs."

"Centaurs?" queried Neville in surprise.

"Yeah, they're always having conversations that make no sense to anyone else, but they understand each other right enough."

It was a funny comment, Hermione could acknowledge that, but in her current sensitive state regarding Snape, it kind of hurt.

"Exactly," said Harry seriously, taking Ron's quip at face value. "But they're not like that anymore. I mean," he added, turning towards Hermione, "he gave you Wartcap mushrooms for your NEWT project!"

"What? Not the project you have to write on Cerulian Amber?"

"Yes—"

"The one where Seamus said that Snape must have known that you like to polish your broom?"

Neville snorted with laughter, and even Harry cracked a smile.

"Yeah, that project," he said, rolling his eyes. "The point is that he gave Hermione Wartcap mushrooms!"

"But they don't do anything at all except cure warts," said Neville. "It doesn't make sense for a final project."

"Why didn't you tell me something was up, Hermione?" demanded Ron.

"I didn't want to make a fuss. Besides, at the start I couldn't help thinking that maybe it was a challenge." Hermione dropped her eyes to the notes on her lap and prodded them in disappointment. "I've checked every single book in the library that might be the least bit relevant! There's _nothing_ worth knowing about Wartcap mushrooms!" Her voice slid up in pitch and for a terrible second, she thought that she might burst into tears.

"Didn't he sit with you at the trials though?" asked Neville.

"He did," admitted Hermione, "but . . ."

"But what?"

She didn't have words to describe how awful his company at the Quidditch trials had been, certainly not words without tears. In answer to the question, she shrugged, blinking rapidly.

"Let me see that," demanded Ron. He pulled the pile of parchment from her lap and scanned what she'd written with a furrowed brow. "You should write up the final copy with what you've already got," he said sensibly. "You'll have one major assignment out of the way and you won't have to worry about this nonsense any more."

Hermione felt a rush of love for he crazy boyfriend. When he wasn't talking about Quidditch, he really was wonderful.

"Honestly, Hermione," agreed Neville, "if _you_ can't find the information, then it doesn't exist."

The support of her friends made Hermione feel about four hundred percent better.

"Thanks, guys," she said. She held out her hand for her notes and shoved them deep inside her satchel.

"Maybe it's the leadership thing," said Ron.

"What?" It was Harry who was confused now.

"Snape," replied Ron. He was clearly thinking about Harry's initial question. "Before the Order meeting Snape behaved no differently, right? Things were okay in Australia."

"Things were good in Australia," confirmed Hermione. She felt slightly guilty towards Ron about exactly how good they'd been and how much she'd enjoyed it.

"Snape didn't want to be leader: he said no. Then Hermione convinced him. Maybe he's mad about that."

_Is that it?_ Hermione ran the idea through her head several times. It was certainly more appealing than the thought that he knew about her crush. Although it didn't provide any better way to deal with the situation.

"But that's ridiculous!" exclaimed Harry. "He hasn't even done anything as leader beyond hand out a few silver buttons that he didn't even make! We've reconvened the Order because we have a serious problem to deal with, and no-one's done anything!"

"That's not entirely true, Harry," said Hermione. "Professor Vector and I have been working really hard on the matrix." Along with Transfiguration lessons with Professor McGonagall, her Arithmantic sessions had been the highlight of her week, .

"But we still don't know what to do about the wand, and the second meeting isn't even scheduled for another two weeks!" Harry was only slightly mollified at the reminder that Hermione was working on the problem.

"Mate—" began Ron, then censored himself abruptly as Lavender Brown approached their secluded corner.

To everyone's surprise, she walked right into their midst.

"Guess what?" she asked, sinking uninvited onto the leather footrest of Hermione's chair. Her hands were tightly gripped below her chin and her eyes were glowing.

Only a piece of exceptionally good gossip would bring her to speak so excitedly to Hermione; though they shared a room, they rarely talked.

"What?" Hermione replied, curious almost in spite of herself.

"I heard from Parvati who heard from her sister Padma who heard from Michael Corner whose mother is on the board this year,"—Lavender paused briefly to draw breath—"that there's going to be a Yule Ball!"

Lavender's news was met by the clamour of voices she clearly thought it deserved.

"Mate!" exclaimed Ron, slapping one hand down on the coffee table for emphasis. "This ball is going to be so much better than the last one!"

Hermione quirked up one corner of her mouth at his unexpected vehemence. "Why?" she asked curiously.

"Because," he replied triumphantly, "this year you'll be going with me, and Krum'll be stuck trying to stop Seamus from spiking the punch!"

Hermione laughed, her earlier bad mood completely forgotten.

"Hey, Neville! Who are you going to take?"

"No-one." Neville sat back in his chair. The smile was gone from his face.

"What do you mean, no-one?" asked Ron, perplexed by Neville's response.

"I meant exactly that," replied Neville, his cheeks uncomfortably red.

"But you're a war hero! You could have any girl you wanted!"

"There is . . . someone . . . that I like, but they're already in a relationship. It wouldn't be honourable to ask them."

"Ooh! Who is it?" Lavender leant towards Neville with more interest than she'd ever shown him before.

"It's none of your business!"

There was an awkward pause.

"Good for you, Neville," said Hermione, breaking the silence.

"I'm going to bed." Neville got out of his chair in a rush, moving from pressed back in the seat to towering above them in a fraction of a second. "Goodnight," he added, without really looking at any of them.

"Hey! Wait!" Ron leapt after him. "I'm coming up, too."

Before they'd reached the staircase Ron's voice could be heard: "But you'll tell me, right?"

Hermione shook her head and couldn't conceal a small smile. Ron hated it when the relationships around him weren't laid out before him like a chessboard, and if she knew him—which she did—he wouldn't leave Neville alone until the other boy had cracked and revealed his secret.

"Gosh! I've just seen Dean—" Lavender was gone without managing to finish the sentence.

"How long do you reckon before news of Neville's secret crush is all over the year level?" asked Hermione, but when she looked over at Harry to share the joke, the furrow was back between his eyes and he wasn't paying much attention.

Getting up from her chair, she went over and sat on the arm of his seat. "Hey there," she said from her new perch. "Everything okay?"

"You don't think that Neville meant Ginny, do you?" he asked _sotto voce_.

Hermione forced herself to consider his words carefully, not wanting to come across as overly flippant.

"I wouldn't think so," she answered at last. "I wasn't aware that Ginny had a boyfriend right now."

"Yeah, but he did kiss her last year."

This wasn't a particularly convincing piece of logic, but Hermione nodded nevertheless.

"Hmm," she responded. With one hand, she reached out and threaded her fingers into Harry's hair. She pulled his head towards her and placed a kiss firmly on the top. "I love you, Harry Potter," she said. "Now go to bed."

"Okay, mum." Harry shoved his uncompleted schoolwork into his satchel haphazardly. "Maybe Ron's figured out who it is!"

With that happy thought, Harry headed up the stairwell. Moments later, Hermione followed, yet again shaking her head at her ridiculously male friends. On the way up the stairs, she glanced in at Ginny's door, her conversation with Harry fresh in her mind.

Hermione was in luck: Ginny was seated cross-legged on her bed, reading her Transfiguration textbook. Her roommates were nowhere to be seen.

"Hey," Hermione said softly, leaning her upper body into the room.

Ginny looked up, startled, then her face softened. "Hey, yourself," she replied. "Come on in and pull up a piece of quilt."

"How's Transfiguration going?" asked Hermione, as Ginny pulled a broken quill from the knot of her hair and used it to mark her page instead.

"Good. Krum's a pretty decent teacher, although sometimes his explanations are way too complicated."

"I can imagine!" Hermione grinned at the thought of her enthusiastically intellectual friend before a classroom of Hogwarts students.

"I never really knew him before—not like you did, at any rate. I didn't realise he was so talkative!"

Hermione laughed outright. "Yes! As long as the topic is Quidditch or school work he's pretty difficult to shut up."

"Actually—speaking of Quidditch and school work, he, er, gave me some extra Transfiguration work to do." Ginny tried, and failed, to look modest.

"He did?" asked Hermione, lifting her eyebrows encouragingly.

"Yeah, he said that he thought I might have what it takes to play professionally." Ginny pushed a strand of hair back behind her ear in a deliberately casual gesture.

"And he thinks Transfiguration will help?" Hermione cocked her head in surprise.

"Ha, no! If that were the case, Hermione—"

"Don't you dare finish that sentence! Finish the story instead!"

Ginny smirked, but went on: "He sat me down and gave me a long, long lecture about all the things that can go wrong with a career in Quidditch, from injury to professional envy to bad relationships with a coach. He said that I needed to have some back-up career plans and some strong skills in more traditional areas."

"That's really wonderful, Ginny."

"It's pretty cool." Ginny shrugged, but she looked very pleased with herself. "DADA and Transfiguration have always been my strengths; I do alright at Charms and Potions, too. But we'll see."

"Ginny, I'm so impressed."

She shrugged again and tossed back her hair. "What's up with you?"

"I just came from the common room, where Lavender dropped the bombshell that there's going to be another Yule Ball."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Kitty Pritchard couldn't talk about anything else all last period. I was about ready to stab her with my potions knife."

They exchanged companionable smiles.

"I suppose you'll go with Ron."

"Of course."

"How are things going between you two?"

"The same." The same bickering, the same overwhelming need, the same fear, the same seesawing back and forth between desperate love and almost incapacitating fury.

"So I'm guessing you haven't had sex yet," responded Ginny shrewdly.

Hermione sighed. "Nope." And she wasn't still wasn't sure whether she loved him or hated him because of it.

"Perhaps Ron's made some stupid boy pact with Harry and he's waiting until the two of us get back together and do it before he does."

Hermione happily seized on the opportunity to change the focus of the conversation. "What's happening with you and Harry, anyway?"

It was Ginny's turn to sigh. "I don't know. We've been talking." Ginny took the time to twist her hair back up on top of her head, and then pinned it in place with her wand. "He did say that you'd tried to explain it to him using Quidditch metaphors and failed miserably."

"It was a perfectly good analogy!" replied Hermione, torn between humour and exasperation. "I asked him whether the sight of a Bludger about to hit you would distract him from catching the Snitch were it right under his nose, and for some reason he found my question so funny that he couldn't stop laughing for about fifteen minutes!"

"Well, it is pretty funny," remarked Ginny, her own mouth curved up in amusement.

Hermione drew in a breath to complain, and then huffed it out in a laugh at her own expense. "Clearly I don't see why, but I guess I wouldn't get it even if you explained it at length."

"Probably not," agreed Ginny, still smiling.

"Did you manage to explain things to him in a more appropriate way?"

"Well, he gets that I want him to respect me as my own person; he gets that I don't need him as a protector. I just don't think either of us know how he can actually show that he's stopped treating me that way. It's not like I want there to be another battle just so that Harry can fight alongside me rather than sending me to the Room of Requirement like a little kid that's up past her bedtime."

Hermione didn't know what to say and for a long minute they sat in contemplative silence.

"Ginny," she asked a little awkwardly, "is it true you kissed Neville?"

"Harry tell you that?"

Hermione nodded.

Ginny pulled a wry face. "It's true. It was pretty much a total disaster: we both tried to imagine that the other person was someone else."

"Huh. Downstairs, Neville confessed he has a secret crush. Harry thought it might be you."

"I guarantee you that Neville does not have a crush on me," replied Ginny with conviction. "I am sure of it."

"Will you go to the ball with Harry?"

"He hasn't asked me," said Ginny, with one eyebrow raised. "Maybe I'll ask Loony Lovegood. That would be nicely ironic, don't you think?"

Hermione laughed. "Come to Hogsmeade with us this weekend," she said impulsively.

"You, Harry and Ron?" Ginny sounded a bit sceptical.

"Neville'll probably come too. I don't mean as Harry's date, I just mean to hang out with all of us, as a group. It will be nice."

"If by nice you mean walking around in the bitterly cold wind," responded Ginny, wrinkling her nose.

But from the gleam in her eye, Hermione knew she would come.

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><p>As Ginny had predicted, the October Hogsmeade wind was bitterly cold, and Harry, Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville dealt with it by spending as little time as possible outdoors. They ducked from doorway to doorway, visiting Honeydukes, Scrivenschaft's, the Post Office, Spintwitches, Dogweed and Deathcap (for Neville) and even—briefly—Tomes and Scrolls. They finished up at the Three Broomsticks, only to find that every other student had had the same idea. There wasn't a table to be had.<p>

"Hog's Head?" asked Harry, without much enthusiasm. No-one wanted to head back outside only to walk away from Hogwarts.

"Let's just get some butterbeer and take it back to the common room," suggested Ron.

The idea met with a chorus of approval and less than ten minutes later they were headed for the door. Harry and Ginny stepped outside first and by the time the others—who waited for Hermione to don hat, gloves and a long stripy scarf—followed, the non-couple were halfway across the square.

"You leaving already?"

With her hat pulled well down against the wind, Hermione hadn't seen Jocelyn until the younger girl spoke.

"It's super busy in there," Hermione replied. "We're going to head back to the common room and drink our butterbeer there."

Hermione glanced from Jocelyn to her companion; she recognised him as a Slytherin pureblood from Jocelyn's year, but she couldn't remember his name.

"Oh, okay then." Jocelyn dropped her eyes and scuffed one toe on the ground.

"'Mione, we should hurry up, or we'll lose Harry."

"Don't let us keep you," said Jocelyn, stepping out of the way immediately. Her words had an edge to them, but it wasn't quite the sarcastic bite Hermione had anticipated.

"Why don't you come?" she asked impulsively.

Jocelyn's eyes flew up to meet hers. "Really?" she asked, a surprised half smile on her face. "Can Milt come too?"

"Sure," replied Hermione. They had more than enough butterbeer to include the tagalongs. She couldn't help wondering what Snape would think of the invitation and whether he would hear about it. Almost everything seemed to remind her of Snape these days, and she tried to push the thoughts aside.

"Thanks!" Jocelyn hooked her hand in her friend Milt's elbow, and pulled him snug against her side.

Hermione looked for Harry and saw that he and Ginny had stopped to wait. There were two other Slytherin students crossing the square towards the Three Broomsticks, their hands buried in their pockets and long school scarves wrapped around their necks. Hermione was still smiling, still warm with the glow of hospitable behaviour, when all hell broke loose.

It was Ron who noticed that something was wrong. "HEY!" he shouted suddenly, and with his arms full of butterbeer, he took the most aggressive action possible: he threw the bottles he was holding at a shadowy figure off to his left.

Hermione's wand was in her hand before she could blink, but it took her a few moments longer to assess the situation. Two of Ron's missiles had hit their target before the others exploded midair from a well-directed Reducto curse. Luckily Neville managed to conjure a Shield Charm that protected the students from the flying shards of glass. Several figures had emerged from the periphery of the square at the commotion—and they were dressed in long black robes, their faces covered in silver masks.

_Death Eaters._

Panic thrummed through Hermione's veins. Harry and Ginny had taken cover in a doorway at the other side of the square. Hermione couldn't understand why he was hanging around.

"Harry!" she shouted. "Go! Get out of here!"

Jocelyn grabbed Milt and shoved him into Neville's chest. Then she turned and ran out into the open space, ducking behind the nearest tree and scrambling on all fours to take advantage of a low garden bed planted with ornamental toadstools. She was headed towards the stranded Slytherin students.

Ron was duelling with the Death Eater he'd first disturbed. The flashes of various spells and counter curses blossomed like fireworks.

Neville was struggling to hold Milt back from haring after Jocelyn.

"Just take him and go!" shouted Hermione. "We'll follow as soon as Harry does!"

Neville grimaced, but he took her advice. "Wulfric," he said, enunciating clearly, and with a flash of blue light, he and Milt Portkeyed to safety.

If only Harry would do the same. He and Ginny were fighting with three attackers, and it was merely a matter of time before someone broke through their defences.

Hermione could feel the round silver disk of her own Portkey pressed against her breastbone. Why the hell hadn't Harry used his? With a silent prayer that Jocelyn would reach her friends safely, Hermione abandoned the youngest Malfoy to her own devices and ran to Harry's defence. Racing towards the Death Eaters from behind, Hermione was able to stun one unawares. Seconds later, however, one of the other Death Eaters revived their fallen comrade and span to meet Hermione, taking up a defensive position back-to-back with the Death Eater who was fighting Harry.

Hermione got a Shield Charm up in enough time that the first curse from her assailant slammed into it.

"_Petrificus Totalus_!" Once again, Hermione's curse hit home, and the Death Eater before her toppled forwards, exposing the back of the one behind. Hermione didn't hesitate to cast again: "_Stupefy_!"

Unlike the two attackers she'd immobilised (however temporarily), this Death Eater was no soft touch. He whirled towards her and sent her Stunner ricocheting back in her direction. Hermione only just had time to twist out of the way. A huge net of ropes leapt from her attacker's wand, expanding outwards and threatening to envelop her. Hermione managed to conjure a horde of canaries, who plucked at the strands and carried it back in the other direction.

Her attacker let the net dissolve away and turned the canaries into a swarm of hornets. The furious insects swerved in Hermione's direction, the noise of them like harsh machinery.

Hermione blew a strong breeze from her wand, pushing the buzzing swarm up, over the nearest rooftop and out of sight.

She felt like every sense was on high alert. Her eyes were wide, her reflexes on hair trigger. This man could duel, and that alone made it obvious that at least two of the purported Death Eaters present couldn't. Almost certainly the two she had incapacitated with ease had never fought alongside Voldemort, although this man might well have.

Behind her she could hear Ron bellowing, though she couldn't make out the words. To her left, Ginny had taken advantage of Hermione's approach to head for the stranded Slytherin students. As Hermione's attacker conjured a flaming lasso, and she in turn doused it with a well-aimed Aguamenti, she heard Jocelyn and Ginny shout "Wulfric" in quick succession. There was a double flash of bright blue from the square to her left, and she could only hope that they'd managed to take the Slytherin students with them.

"It's voice activated!" shrieked a woman. It was the Death Eater that Hermione had originally Stunned.

At her words, the man Hermione had been duelling spun and managed to hit Harry unawares: "_Silencio_!"

As if the scene before her had suddenly switched into slow motion, Hermione watched the dawning horror spread over Harry's face.

"No!" she shouted.

"Harry!" Ron hurdled a wooden bench and leapt into view. He had one hand down the front of his robes, and Hermione—impossibly—heard the sound of tearing fabric as he wrenched his own Portkey loose. "Catch!"

Ron weighed the silver disk for a merest second, before he tossed it up and across the distance between him and his best friend. As it tumbled through the air, it caught the late afternoon sun. Two Death Eaters fired curses at it, but they missed the tiny moving target. Harry, however, the Gryffindor Seeker, reached out his left hand and snatched it from the air.

"Wulfric!" shouted Ron, the tendons standing out on his neck, his face red with effort and exertion.

With a blinding blue flash, Harry was gone.

The noise of her surroundings roared back into Hermione's ears, and the frantic pace of the pitched battle sprang back into high gear.

"_Accio Ron_!" she shouted, and the broad, tall body of her red-headed boyfriend flew through the air and thudded into her chest. The impact knocked her sideways, but she managed to wrap her arms around him, desperately clutching at handfuls of his clothing.

A spell hit her shoulder and a terrible pain blossomed—she felt as if she'd been stabbed.

"Wulfric!" she shouted, fighting against the waves of pain and blackness that threatened to overcome her. There was a flash of blue, and a sharp, jerking sensation behind her navel. Hermione and her precious burden were spun out of Hogsmeade and into the interstitial space between places. The centrifugal force of their passage threatened to wrench Ron from her grip, but she held on, sobbing, though she thought her arms might be ripped from their sockets and her right shoulder throbbed excruciatingly.

The three seconds it took to reach McGonagall's office by Portkey were the longest and most painful of Hermione's life. As her knees crashed into the wooden floor, and she fell unceremoniously into a tangle of legs and bodies, Hermione was crying with pain and with relief.

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><p>AN: BAM! So?


	13. Chapter 12: Hooked

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 12: Hooked

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: I'd forgotten how successfully a cliffhanger draws out the reviews . . . I should write them more often! This chapter is for Steggy, who wasn't signed in, so I couldn't respond to his/her/zer reviews, but who nailed the motivating spirit of the entire story.

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><p>Minerva's Patronus found Severus in his laboratory, where he sat perched on a stool, painstakingly cross-referencing the alchemical properties of various Wolfsbane ingredients. Her message was sufficient to send him sprinting through the corridors and running up the short flight of stairs to the ground floor. When, on reaching the main stairwell, he found the staircases pointing at odds with his desired destination Severus leapt upwards and into the air, propelling himself up to the first floor by magic. He alighted at the entrance to the Headmistress' office.<p>

"Russian Blue!"

The gargoyle sprung aside, adding a smart, military salute to his usual sideways routine.

Severus didn't wait around to acknowledge the gesture. He raced up the moving staircase and threw open the door to Minerva's office with a bang; his robes billowed behind him.

Minerva was standing at her desk, leaning forwards, her weight resting on her hands. She, like Longbottom and a very nervous looking Milton Hammerbright, was staring at the clear space in the centre of the room. No-one else had arrived.

"Where are they?" he asked, addressing Longbottom.

"In front of the Three Broomsticks."

"The attack?"

"Four Death Eaters, sir. Maybe more."

_Death Eaters?_

"Drop the Anti-Apparition wards, Minerva."

"Severus—"

"Now, Minerva. There's not a moment to waste!"

An unreadable expression passed over Minerva's face, and for a second, her eyes closed. Then she nodded.

Whatever she had been about to say, however, was interrupted by a flash of blue light. Severus spun towards the centre of the room: Ginevra Weasley, Jocelyn Malfoy, Chelsea Gladstone and Pubert Cavendish had materialised in a flurry of bodies and noise.

"Quiet!" commanded Minerva over the sudden hubbub. "Move back from the centre of the room and stand up straight."

The new arrivals did as they were told. Miss Weasley helped Cavendish to his feet, and passed the poor boy a lace-edged handkerchief to dry his eyes and wipe a trail of snot from his nose. All four students looked the worse for wear: all of them were streaked with dirt and Weasley's robes were badly singed.

"Miss Weasley," asked Minerva, "where's Harry—?"

Another flash broadcast the answer to her question as Harry Goddamn Potter Portkeyed into the room. Unlike the previous arrivals, he managed to keep his feet on landing. With only a second in which he glanced around the room to get his bearings, Potter ran towards where Minerva and Severus stood, gesticulating wildly with his wand and his closed fist, his mouth flapping silently. It took Severus several moments to realise that Potter couldn't speak, and indeed, Minerva was quicker.

"_Finite Incantatem!_" she snapped, and words immediately poured from Potter's moving lips.

"—Ron gave me his! He's stranded!" Potter opened his fist and a silver button tumbled from his hand onto Minerva's desk.

It fell with a clunk. There was a second's silence, as everyone stared at Weasley's Portkey. Then Ginevra let out a strangled sob.

"Go, Severus!" said Minerva sharply.

Severus drew in a breath. He met her eye, and she nodded.

At that moment, there was another blue flash. Severus wheeled again towards the centre of the room. The relief he felt at the sight of Hermione Granger hit him with almost incapacitating force. His lungs felt tight and nausea roiled unexpectedly in pit of his stomach. Weasley was there, too, and someone else. Someone in long, dark robes and an all-too-familiar silver mask.

Potter and Severus reacted at the same moment.

"_Expelliamus!_" shouted Potter.

"_Incarcerous!_" cried Severus.

Both spells hit the mark and, within seconds, the Death Eater was bound and disarmed. Severus stepped forward and dropped to one knee. With his wand held ready, he pulled off the Death Eater's mask with his other hand.

The face he revealed was completely unfamiliar to him: a nondescript man looked back, with greying, brown hair and a receding hairline. Clearly, however, Severus was known to the stranger, for the bound man spat in Severus' face and swore loudly.

"_Silencio_," snapped McGonagall, cutting off the stream of invective. "I do not tolerate such language in my office. Severus, do you recognise him?"

Severus shook his head.

"I trust you have some Veritaserum? Best that we deal with this matter quickly."

_Before the Aurors arrive_. Minerva didn't have to spell out her meaning to make her position clear.

Severus nodded. Beside him, Granger, who'd been knocked to the ground by the force of her arrival, struggled to her knees. There was something odd about the way that she moved, and despite his intention to keep the captive under constant surveillance, his eyes turned towards her. She was disturbingly pale. Slowly, gingerly, Granger reached over her right shoulder with her left hand. Her eyes widened. When she brought her hand back into view, it was coated with blood.

Severus reached out and gripped Granger's upper arms as she crumpled in on herself and would have fallen. All around them, the room erupted into chaos.

"Hermione!"

"Lie her down!"

"What is that thing? A harpoon?"

"Everybody calm down! Poppy is on her way!"

"Hermione! Hang in there! Just squeeze my hand."

As gently as he could, Severus lowered Granger towards the floor, pillowing her face on his body. Protruding from her shoulder was a metal spike about a foot long, and attached to that was a cord that led back to the Death Eater's wand. Jocelyn wasn't wrong: it looked like a harpoon. The attacker must have conjured the weapon and fired it in the seconds before Granger Portkeyed away.

The thought of the centrifugal force that Granger's shoulder must have borne during the journey didn't bear thinking about.

Poppy, luckily, arrived quickly.

"Good grief!" she muttered. Her wand danced in a sure and efficient set of diagnostic manoeuvres, and she read the resultant pattern of green and yellow light with pursed lips. Using several short flicks of her wand, Poppy peeled away Granger's robes from the point of impact, then she pressed the tip of her wand into Granger's flesh and chanted a Pain Numbing Charm. She brushed her free hand over Granger's forehead, smoothing away several recalcitrant curls.

"Breathe deeply, Hermione," she said softly. "I'm going to take this monstrosity out of your shoulder, and then we'll reassess."

Granger nodded—a minimal gesture—and pressed her eyes closed.

One of Severus' hands was still twisted into the folds of Granger's robes, his arm trapped by the weight of her upper body.

"What do you want me to do?" he asked Poppy quietly.

"Just hold her still . . . Okay, Hermione, on three: one, two, three!"

Poppy lifted clear a wickedly barbed hook, siphoning off blood and already beginning to treat the exposed wound with a number of healing spells.

"I can—" began Severus.

"You can make yourself useful," interrupted Poppy without pausing in her work, "and check the weapon for poisons."

That he could do. Severus ran the most complex and powerful diagnostics he knew on the weapon. It came up clean.

He was done before Poppy was finished slathering Granger's shoulder with salve and bandaging the whole in white silk. Along with the rest of the room, he watched Poppy at her ministrations; the combined anxiety of those present bore down on him.

"You'll be fine," said Poppy eventually, her voice sounding overloud in the unnatural quiet. "You're in for a night in the Hospital Wing and a few days of aches and pains, but there should be no lasting side effects."

Severus restrained his own effusions of relief, but the other students didn't. Weasley's stupidly repetitious "Alright, okay, alright," and the loud exclamations of the other Gryffindors were cut off only when Jocelyn shouted over them.

"No! Stop! Professor, do something!" As she shouted, she leapt towards the prisoner, but even though she got her hands on him and shook him, she was too late.

Green foam was dribbling from the man's mouth, and his body was convulsing. Within seconds, he was dead.

"Oh, fuck you!" she exclaimed, throwing both hands up in exasperation.

"Language, Miss Malfoy!"

"I beg your pardon, Professor McGonagall." Jocelyn stood stiffly, fury radiating from every pore. Severus wouldn't have been surprised to see her kick the dead body.

Severus took a long, careful look around the room, noting the frightened faces of his third-year Slytherins, and the range of tired, pained and stressed expressions fielded by the bunch of Gryffindors. Granger was seated on the floor, propped against Ronald Weasley, who had one arm about her waist; Jocelyn was standing in the middle of the room with her arms crossed; Potter was seated cross legged against the wall—he had his head balanced on his hand, and his hand covering his eyes.

"How long do we have until the Aurors get here?" Severus asked Minerva.

She glanced at the only one of Dumbledore's queer metal contraptions to have survived her re-decorating frenzy. "About ten minutes."

"Right," said Severus, assuming the mantle of control. "I want a clear and concise description of exactly what happened. Mr Longbottom, you begin."

Very quickly, the details of the attack emerged: from Ronald Weasley's realisation that something was wrong, through Longbottom's early exit with Hammerbright, to the extended skirmish in which Potter, Ginevra and Jocelyn defended and then rescued Gladstone and Cavendish, and culminating in the desperate heroism of the Boy-Who Continued-To-Live's two best friends. From Ronald Weasley's observations, it was clear that the patrons at the Three Broomsticks had been unable to exit the pub in order to help. It was a miracle that no-one other than Granger had ended up grievously injured.

"So," concluded Minerva in summary, "there are at least three Death Eaters at large—two witches and one wizard—and," she gestured at the dead body in their midst, "they are willing to die rather than reveal their plans."

"We don't know that they're Death Eaters," said Granger, raising her voice with some difficulty to enter the conversation. "We only know that they were dressed like Death Eaters." She paused for a second before continuing. She sounded exhausted. "At least two of them didn't fight like Death Eaters."

"She's right," said Ginevra Weasley. "The women," she added with a grimace, "were much less experienced. They were slower to respond and to attack. In a way we were lucky."

"Luck doesn't even begin to cover it, Miss Weasley." Snape wanted to smack their heads together.

Minerva held up a finger. "We've only a minute longer," she warned.

Later, Severus promised himself, he would give Potter the lecture he deserved. "Miss Granger," he ordered, "I want you in the Hospital Wing, now. Slytherins, you all need—"

"I want to stay." Granger wasn't looking at him, she was looking at Poppy. "I'll come to the Hospital Wing as soon as the meeting is over. I promise. Ron will bring me."

"No," said Severus. "There will be no injured students here when the Aurors arrive; that is an order."

Granger hesitated for a split second. "Yes, sir," she replied without meeting his eye.

Poppy turned her attention to the scared younger students. "I want you lot to come with me, too; I think several Calming Draughts might be in order."

Severus gave Poppy a look of gratitude as she bundled the three non-Order members into the Floo; Jocelyn, both Weasleys, Longbottom and Potter would have to stay. Ronald Weasley helped Granger over to the fireplace just in time. She stepped stiffly over the grate and spun away towards the Hospital Wing just as the Aurors' knock sounded on the door.

Minerva took her seat behind the Headmistress' desk and smoothed the front of her tartan robes with one hand. "Come in," she called.

Kingsley Shacklebolt, the Minister for Magic, entered as directed, followed closely by two uniformed Aurors. Severus knew both of their faces, but could only remember one of their names: George Perkins. As a student he'd been sullen and belligerent. Severus didn't anticipate that much had changed.

Kingsley greeted everyone and did his best to unobtrusively return control of the situation to Minerva.

"Our priority is to check that all of the students are safe," he said in his deep voice. "The Ministry is shocked that an attack could take place in Hogsmeade. We're happy to provide the resources the school needs to guarantee student safety at Hogwarts and beyond."

"Thank you, Minister," said Minerva, with a slight inclination of her head. "We are happy to provide any information that you might need to further your investigation." She gestured at the students who remained present. "I took the liberty of retaining several of the students who were set upon today so that they could answer any questions you might have. They did manage to take one of the attackers prisoner, but unfortunately he passed away before he could provide any information that might help to track down the remaining offenders."

Severus reflected that both she and Kingsley were very good at the bland platitudes of bureaucratic speech.

Perkins and his partner immediately sprang upon the body. They each cast the standard-issue law-enforcement charms, revealing that the dead man had been killed by an extract of Cicana Beans, administered by mouth. They also emptied his pockets, revealing a flask of Polyjuice Potion and a pair of wicked looking silver knives.

"How long has he been here?" asked the as-yet-nameless Auror.

Minerva made a fussy show of checking her watch. "Thirty-three minutes," she noted.

As if on cue, the body itself began to melt and contort. Moments later, Severus was staring at Nahum Keene—a known Death Eater sympathiser, but not, to his knowledge, an actual member of the Dark Lord's select crew.

Perkins turned and stared at Severus under lowered eyebrows. "An old friend of yours, then, _Professor_." There was nothing polite about his use of the honorific. "Do you think it was a coincidence that the poor man was poisoned before he could give evidence?"

"Keeping an open mind is an admirable investigative strategy," Severus sneered, letting his upper lip curl up on the left as much as it could, "but I would recommend ruling out coincidence in this particular circumstance."

"It just seems a little too convenient that a Death-Eater Potions Master—"

"What are you implying?"

Potter's outraged interruption _on his behalf _was just too much. Severus—uncharacteristically—couldn't hold back the grin that twisted his lips upwards, and his evident merriment only served to fan the flames of Perkins' fury.

"Some spots don't wash off!" spat Perkins.

"If you're talking about the Dark Mark,"—Jocelyn was the next to leap to Severus' defence—"I can assure you that it disappeared entirely once Harry killed Voldemort."

"My, my, Miss Malfoy. You do seem to know an awful lot about it." Perkins seemed bent on insulting everyone in the room.

"Better informed than ignorant," replied Jocelyn coolly—never before had she looked so much like her father.

"That's enough!" Kingsley finally stepped out of his Ministerial persona and back into the position of authority he'd had as an Auror. "Severus Snape is not currently a suspect in our investigation, Perkins. Take the body and report back to headquarters. You, too, Coxton. We'll debrief once I get back."

Most of the room stood stiffly as the two Aurors did as directed. Severus, on the other hand, took care to make his nonchalance evident; he continued to let a smile play around his mouth.

When the Aurors were finally gone, Kingsley let out a sigh of relief.

"Is everyone okay?" he asked. "For Merlin's sake, someone tell me what happened!"

Minerva quickly filled him in, with interpolations from most of the assembled company. At the end, Kingsley shook his head.

"This is serious," he said. "We have to find a way to destroy the wand, and quickly."

"It was serious before!" Potter replied, too loudly for the space of Minerva's office. "This is not the first time I've been attacked!"

"Mr Potter," snapped Minerva, "there is a substantial difference between an opportunistic attack carried out by an individual and a full-scale ambush such as the one that took place today. I hope you can restrain your anger long enough to appreciate the specifics of the situation in which we find ourselves!"

Potter looked like he wanted to argue back but Ronald Weasley threaded a hand into the crook of his elbow. Potter managed to bite back whatever further comment he'd been about to blurt out.

"We have to come up with a better plan in case anything similar happens again." Ginevra stepped up beside her brother. "No offence, Harry," she leant around Ronald to glance at Potter, "but if there is a next time you need to get out of there straight away."

"I wasn't leaving until the students without Portkeys were safely away," said Potter, mulishly.

"It was your presence that put them in danger, Mr Potter," said Minerva—not unkindly. "If you had left, the attackers would have had nothing worth staying for; every second that the Death Eaters were at large was a risk on their part."

Potter looked as if he'd been slapped.

"You acted on instinct, mate." Ronald Weasley squeezed Potter's arm. "And luckily enough, it turned out fine. But Ginny's right: keeping the wand—and you—safe is our priority, and that means that your job is to get the hell out of there."

"I'm not a coward." Potter's hands were clenched into fists, and the muscles at the sides of his jaw were visibly clenched.

"Then I trust you'll be courageous enough to remove yourself from danger—without concerning yourself with how others might categorise your actions," said Severus. He raised one eyebrow at Potter when the young man twisted his head angrily to look at him.

Unexpectedly, Potter nodded slowly, his lips thinned with shame.

"I suggest we retire to our various rooms," added Severus. "It's been a long day."

"Professor McGonagall, can we visit Hermione on the way back to the common room?" asked Ginevra.

Severus didn't hang around to make polite conversation with Kingsley, or to observe the details of everyone's departures. He headed directly back to his office without even waiting for Jocelyn, who would conceivably have been headed his way. After all, he'd already wasted several hours. He had important work to do on his Wolfsbane project.

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><p>Several hours later, Severus pushed aside his notes and ran both hands up and back through his hair. He had achieved very little. With a deep sigh, he rifled through a pile of miscellaneous texts, finding and pocketing a book on volatility and viscosity that he thought might provide some tangential help on his project; he added a self-inking quill.<p>

The corridors were deserted in that peculiar, just-after-curfew kind of way, as if the echoes of children rushing through them had yet to completely fade. Severus made his way quietly, taking a scenic route that included several courtyards, and pausing for a few moments beneath a knotted sugarplum tree to watch the tiny fairies dancing.

Eventually, despite the detours, he arrived at his destination. Without bothering to knock, Severus pushed open one leaf of the heavy double doors and slipped inside. The lights of the Hospital Wing had been muted for the night, but the glimmer was strong enough that Severus could see Poppy, speaking with Granger, at the far end of the row of beds.

"Come, Hermione, I want you to take the Dreamless Sleep, too. What reason could you possibly have to refuse?"

"I'm sorry, Madam Pomfrey. I don't mean to be difficult, really I don't. I just . . . I just want to be alert if necessary, during the night."

"That kind of anxiety, my dear, is exactly why you need to take the potion. After a day like today, you need at least one night of uninterrupted, peaceful sleep. Once you're out of my care you will be free to indulge to the full your desire for paranoid, wakeful behaviour!"

Under cover of their conversation, Severus had moved closer. He could see the way that Granger's lower lip was caught between her teeth, and the nervous pleats her fingers had folded into the edge of the sheet.

"I'm sorry," she repeated.

"Granger," said Severus abruptly, causing both women to start, "take the potion."

"Rowena's beard, Severus!" expostulated Poppy. "You nearly gave me a heart attack."

"My apologies, Poppy," he replied, though he didn't turn to look at her, "it was not my intention."

Granger swallowed visibly, but she said nothing. Her eyes were wide with the shock of his sudden appearance, and despite her flawless Occlumency shields, Severus could tell from her expression that she was upset.

"Take the Dreamless Sleep," he directed. He turned away from her and conjured a wing-backed reading chair, placing it at a decorous distance from Granger's bed.

"I—I don't want to be drugged or groggy."

Some deep panic limned her words, even though she kept her voice steady and her face resolute.

"By the time you wake for breakfast tomorrow, you won't be." Severus made a rather ostentatious show of settling himself in his chair and smoothing his robes. He extracted his book and quill, going so far as to open the book to the first page.

Poppy took that moment to uncork a phial of Dreamless Sleep and hold it out in front of Granger's face. Granger reached out slowly and wrapped her fingers around the glass.

"How long are you going to stay?" she asked stiffly. Her eyes were focussed on Severus' book rather than his face.

Severus breathed in slowly and counted to three before he could trust himself to respond. "All night," he said at last. He was relieved to note that his voice sounded normal, even as he blew away any last effort to ignore Granger.

"All night," echoed Granger, her voice flat.

For a second, he raised his eyes and met her gaze, then he tore his eyes away. "Nothing will happen to you while you sleep," he said.

Granger sighed. She drank the potion.

"Excellent work!" said a relieved Poppy. Gathering up a number of empty medicine bottles with a wave of her wand, she turned and headed back to her office, the empty phials floating behind her in a neat line. She squeezed Severus' shoulder in gratitude as she passed his chair.

Once Poppy had left, an awkward silence prevailed. Both Severus and Granger knew that they had less than five minutes before sleep overtook her. She spent her time twisting her hair up into a loose knot on top of her head, and settling herself under the covers. She lay flat on her back and stared up at the ceiling. Severus spent his time reading and re-reading the first line of his book.

Eventually, the Dreamless Sleep kicked in, and Granger's eyelids drooped shut. A few seconds later, she sighed deeply and twisted over onto her side. One hand slipped up under her pillow. Her long exhalation carried one, almost inaudible word: "Ssssnape . . ."

Severus hinged forwards from the hips, desperate to hear more, but Granger was fast asleep. After a long moment, he sunk back, feeling shaken and vaguely foolish. He wondered whether he'd imagined the whole thing.

Though he forced himself to read the words of his book, it took a long time before he could turn them into sense.

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><p>AN: I'm ALWAYS asking for reviews, but to good purpose! I promise! They really do feed my muse . . .


	14. Chapter 13: Feast

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 13: Feast

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

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><p>When Hermione woke, it took several seconds to recollect the events of the previous day. She recognised the bed linen of the Hospital Ward first, and then, in a sudden rush, remembered the attack at Hogsmeade, the wound in her shoulder, and Snape's unexpected arrival just before she went to sleep. Was he still there?<p>

Hermione sat up abruptly, her heart racing. There he was, seated not far from her bed, reading the early edition of the_ Daily Prophet_.

He lowered the paper when he heard her move. For a few seconds, they stared at one another.

"Miss Granger," he said, nodding stiffly.

"Good morning, sir."

After six weeks in which he'd barely spoken to her or met her eye, even in class, Hermione didn't know how to take his bedside vigil. Was he there because she was injured? Would he have sat there for any other student? She wanted him to talk to her. She wanted a conversation. She couldn't think of anything to say.

The silence between them was charged.

"I'll go and get Poppy," said Snape.

"Wait!" Hermione found herself with one arm outstretched, reaching after him.

He paused for a second, then turned back. He placed the paper on the bed beside her.

"There will be an Order meeting later today," he said. He wasn't looking at her again. "I trust that you will be recovered enough to attend. No doubt you will wish to familiarise yourself with Skeeter's account of yesterday's events."

And with that, he was gone.

Hermione flopped back down onto her pillow. Tears burned her eyes, and though she did her best to blink them away, she was crying when Madame Pomfrey arrived at her bedside.

"It hurts that badly?" Pomfrey asked with concern, her wand carving up the air as she ran a set of rapid diagnostics.

Hermione's shoulder ached, but not enough to excuse her soggy state. "No," she managed, swallowing hard and scrubbing at her face with the heel of her hand. "I'm sorry, it's nothing."

"I see," said Pomfrey. Her wand hand dropped to her side and with her other hand she stroked Hermione's hair back from her forehead.

Her voice and her gesture were so gentle, so sympathetic, that Hermione found her tears redoubled.

"Let it all out, dear," advised Poppy. "Better than keeping it bottled up inside."

In response, Hermione sobbed. For several long minutes, she turned her face into the pillow, wept and sniffled. Pomfrey pottered around the bed, straightening the sheets on the adjacent beds, tidying the side tables, and watering the plant by the window. Every now and then she clicked her tongue or murmured neutral, soothing words.

When Hermione's tears had subsided to an occasional hiccup, Pomfrey took another diagnostic.

"Cup of tea?" she inquired.

"Yes please." Hermione pushed herself up to a seated position and made an effort to neaten her hair.

Pomfrey conjured a tray and set it to hover over Hermione's lap.

"Sometimes it's hard to know what's worse," commented Poppy, "being attacked by Death Eaters or having to put up with Severus on an empty stomach."

_Was that a joke?_ Hermione's eyes flew to Pomfrey's face, but there was no evidence there to help. Had Madame Pomfrey just vocalised the awful strain of her brief interaction with Snape? Or was she merely making mildly humorous small talk?

Pomfrey poured them each a cup of tea and then settled herself on the seat that Snape had so recently vacated.

"Poor man has spent so long concealing his actions behind a screen of nasty, nasty words, that I'm not sure he knows any other way to be."

Madame Pomfrey seemed so matter of fact. She sat there, blowing over the surface of her tea to cool it, apparently unconcerned that she had brought into the open the one topic Hermione most wished someone would talk about.

Hermione aimed for casual, too. "Does he regularly sit up with students for you?"

To her own ears she sounded false, artificially distant and clearly desperate for the answer. She wanted to bury her face back in the pillow with shame. Instead she blew on her own tea and kept her eyes down as she strained her body towards the answer.

"Goodness gracious, no. He checks on his Slytherins, of course, whenever any of them are here, but he's never sat up all night with anyone else."

The words seemed to swim in through one ear, out the other, and then circle round her head. Hermione felt dizzy.

"That's the thing about Severus," added Pomfrey, "you have to judge his intentions by his actions, not by his facade."

Before Hermione could marshal her thoughts enough to make some response, the watch pinned on Pomfrey's bosom chirped gently. With a sigh, Pomfrey pushed herself out of her chair and sent her tea flying on ahead to her office.

"No rest for the wicked," she said, excusing herself with a wry grimace.

Poppy's words continued to echo in Hermione's ears. She sat and drank her tea, her head a whirlwind of memories: of Snape, of the war, of the hospital wing, of Snape, of his Phoenix song, of Snape, of her friends, of the attack, and of Snape—over and over again.

* * *

><p>The Order meeting that afternoon was a tense affair.<p>

"We're still waiting for Kingsley," noted McGonagall, "but I think we should begin."

Bill summarised what they knew about the attacks; Snape provided some details on the dead Death Eater, Nahum Keene; Arthur discussed the reports that had appeared in the _Daily Prophet_.

"Basically," stated Harry, running one hand back through his hair in frustration, "we know nothing."

"We need Kingsley," said Ron. "He'll have the Aurors' reports and—"

As if conjured by Ron's words, there was a knock on the door, and both Shacklebolts entered at McGonagall's command.

"We have a problem," said Kingsley. He pulled a copy of the _Daily Prophet_ out from under one arm and shook it out. "This is tomorrow's paper."

The headline flashed and shimmered across the page: "Minister of Magic or Vigilante Leader?"

"Rita Skeeter's been hard at work," added Kingsley.

"In the interests of time," said Kaleisha, "let me summarise the gist: Kingsley, Skeeter intimates, is exploiting his position as Minister of magic in order to advance the agenda of a vigilante group established by Albus Dumbledore."

"Ah," said Minerva.

"Bugger," said Ron.

"What are we going to do?" asked Hermione.

"Honestly," said Kaleisha, "I think Kingsley should immediately tender his resignation to one group or another, but preferably the 'vigilante group,'"—she enclosed the phrase in air quotes—"before this paper hits the stands."

Kingsley looked miserable; Snape let out a long breath through his nose.

"But Dumbledore never stopped running the Order!" protested Harry.

"Yeah, but he never joined the ministry, either," said Ron.

"This is ridiculous! We can't let Rita Bloody Skeeter control us!"

"Oh, Harry. It's not that simple." McGonagall sighed. "This is the kind of scandal that could destroy Kingsley's political career. If he leaves the Order now, he can talk about his association with the group in the past tense, even under Veritaserum. If he doesn't, he puts all of us and our actions at risk."

"I don't want to leave," said Kingsley. "The Order has been my life."

"Harry," added McGonagall, "It's more important for us to have a sympathetic Minister, like Kingsley, who will work to erase prejudice and to further similar goals, than to keep Kingsley bound by his oath."

"Severus?" Kingsley turned to Snape, seeking his permission.

"I accept your resignation," he said, without any trace of his customary sarcasm. "Your service to the Order has been exemplary."

"As my last contribution," said Kingsley, pulling a roll of parchment from an inner pocket, "I brought a copy of the Aurors' reports on the Hogsmeade attack. I should also tell you that I have filed for a minesterial override of threatened charges for the production, use, and dissemination of unauthorised Portkeys. Kaleisha is working on a petition that would give the school the authority to use Portkeys for students under credible threat."

"Small mercies," muttered Hooch.

The rest of the meeting was taken up with unravelling Kingsley's oath. Once he left the others looked at each other with something akin to despair. The Aurors' report had added no new information to the Death Eater investigation and instead of moving the discussion forwards, Kingsley's visit had left them short a vital member of their unit.

"This meeting," said Snape, "is adjourned."

He swept out before Hermione could even consider trying to talk to him.

* * *

><p>Harry lingered so long over the Halloween feast that Hermione almost ditched him.<p>

If only he had been happily chatting with Ron about Quidditch, she would have felt no compunction, kissing them both fondly before heading up to her room. There was a fascinating book McGonagall had leant her on individual style and transfiguration outcomes waiting on her bedside table, and she could have pulled the curtains around her and dwelt uninterrupted on the problem of Snape.

But Harry wasn't talking to Ron. Far from it. Ron sat at the other end of the long table with Neville, Seamus, and Dean, and the intermittent shouts of hilarity that floated over to Harry and Hermione showed that Ron, at least, was having a great evening. Harry, for his part, was staring down at his dessert and chopping his pumpkin tart into progressively smaller pieces.

Not for the first time, Hermione pondered the irony of the current situation. Ginny had been surprisingly placated by the major role she'd played in the Hogsmeade skirmish: she had rescued the Slytherin boy, Cavendish, and she'd held her own in a two-way duel. This time, it was Harry who was criticised for putting himself into harm's way. Harry who had been told that he should have thought of his own safety first. Harry who was directed to leave the rescuing to others.

_Bugger Dumbledore for having instilled the martyr complex so efficiently._

Rather than recognising that he'd essentially been tarred with the brush that had shadowed Ginny throughout the war, Harry was sulky and furious. Hermione had only escaped his rage by dint of her convalescence in the hospital wing. Funny, really, since she had been burning to tell him off for his behaviour. Several times over the last week Hermione had had to bite her tongue, humming noncommittally as he suggested that had he fled, his sudden disappearance might have infuriated the Death Eaters to the point where they attacked the defenceless younger students in retribution.

When the last of the plates cleared by magic, and Harry's mashed up dessert disappeared, Hermione thought they might be free to go. But Harry didn't move until several minutes after the last of the other Gryffindors had drifted away.

At last he looked up and met her eye with an apologetic grimace.

"Thanks, Hermione," he said.

"That's okay. Shall we go back to the common room?" She couldn't help the hopeful note that crept into her voice.

"Actually," Harry gave a surreptitious glance over his shoulder. "There's something I have to do first. I brought the cloak; can you keep a look out for me in the corridor while I disappear?"

Hermione stared at her friend with her mouth slightly ajar. Several possible replies sped through Hermione's head—from outright disbelief to screaming rage.

"It's okay, Hermione." Harry could clearly read something of her reaction, even though she hadn't yet said anything. "I promise I won't go out of the school building. You can wait up, if you want. I won't be that long, maybe only a couple of minutes behind you. I'm not putting myself in danger. I _swear_ it."

Hermione wanted to ask him where he was going, but she didn't. She considered insisting that she had to come, or Disillusioning herself and trying to follow him, but she didn't do either of those things.

"Fine," she said, heavy at heart. Without waiting for his thanks or any further explanation, she pushed up from the table and headed out of the great hall. Harry followed closely behind, and once they'd reached a deserted stretch of hallway, she turned back towards him. "Go now," she said. "I'll see you in the common room. If you're not back by midnight, I'm going to McGonagall."

"I got it: if I'm not back by midnight, I'll turn into a pumpkin." Harry gave her a hint of a smile. He leant forwards and kissed her cheek. "You make a great fairy godmother."

"You," said Hermione, rolling her eyes, "too, can go to the ball."

Harry grinned outright and pulled the translucent length of his cloak from an inside pocket. For an instant, as he swung it around him, Hermione caught its shimmer and saw his face framed in sliver fabric, then he was gone.

For a few seconds, Hermione stood in the corridor, feeling abandoned, before heading back to Gryffindor tower.

Ron—bless him—had waited up for her, all by himself. He was tossing a Weasleys' Wheezes Jogging Juggler absently from hand to hand, and the three legs of the tumbling ball spun furiously in the air. When he saw Hermione, though, he shoved the Juggler into a pocket and got to his feet.

Hermione walked over straight into his embrace, resting her forehead against his breastbone and closing her eyes. His large hands gripped her upper arms gently and he rubbed his thumbs across the front of her shoulder.

"You wanna sit by the fire and cuddle for a while?"

Hermione pulled a face into his robes and then tipped back her head. "I can't. I have to do something for Harry."

"Hang in there," replied Ron, tugging gently on a stray curl of her hair. "He can't stay grumpy at the rest of us forever."

"Can you do me a favour?"

"Depends."

Hermione poked him companionably in the ribs. He was in her favourite mood: gentle, observant, lightly teasing. "Can you see if the Marauders' Map is Harry's trunk, and if it is fetch it down? I don't think I can bear Seamus and his wolf whistles tonight."

"Sure." Ron pressed a kiss to her hairline and disappeared up the staircase towards the boys dormitories.

It took him a few minutes, but he appeared with the parchment in hand, and some of Hermione's crushing anxiety about Harry lightened. Ron passed the map across without comment. "I, um, guess I'll leave you to it, then," he said.

Hermione flashed him a grateful smile. "Thanks, Ron," she said, standing up on tiptoes to press a kiss against the corner of his mouth. "Say goodnight to Neville for me."

Ron brightened slightly. "Yeah. Maybe I can get him to talk about his love interest!"

Hermione shook her head, smiling, as her boyfriend scampered back up the stairs to pursue his latest obsession. At this rate, he'd soon have asked Neville who he wanted to take to the Yule Ball more times than he had asked Hermione who she was going with at the previous one.

"I solemnly swear that I am up to no good," said Hermione quietly, tapping her wand on the parchment.

Immediately, thin black lines bled out from the point where her wand had touched, twisting and shifting into a growing map of Hogwarts. She seated herself by the fire, pouring over the visible names and searching for Harry's location. Since curfew had passed and all of the students (except Harry) were tucked safely away in their respective houses, her task was relatively simple. Even still, it took her a good few minutes to locate him.

He was in the Potions Master's office. With Snape.

Hermione stared at the parchment as if the force of her gaze could burn through the surface in order to see and hear what was happening, but the two ink dots, with their tiny scripted labels, remained—unmoving.

Her flash of relief that Harry was safe was more than outweighed by a burning furnace of jealousy.

_Is Snape meeting with Harry regularly?_

_He won't speak to me, but he's meeting with _Harry_?_

Hermione wasn't certain how long she stood there, but at some point, she pulled herself together. Keeping one eye on the Marauders' Map, she headed over to the girls' staircase, and checked that it was empty. A muttered charm was sufficient to open the door of her dormitory from her place at the bottom of the stairs and, with the route clear, she Accioed her book from where it sat beside her bed. Hermione then settled herself into a chair that was nearish to the fire but with a good view of the door. She tried to focus on her reading.

She wasn't particularly successful. Every few seconds she looked again at the Map, checking and re-checking that Harry was still seated in Snape's office. For forty-five minutes, neither man moved. At that point, the dot marked "Harry" set out from Snape's office and made its way slowly and surely back to Gryffindor tower. Precisely on cue, the portrait door swung open, and Harry appeared in the flesh.

"Hi," she said, her voice sounding abrupt after her long, tense silence.

"Hey," replied Harry. His eyes dropped to the Marauders' Map, which lay visible on her lap. "I was visiting Snape," he added needlessly.

"So I saw."

There was an awkward silence. Harry came and sat in the chair opposite Hermione.

"Tonight, during the feast," he said, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "I got thinking about things. What with the ridiculous decorations and celebrating Nearly-Headless-Nick's deathday and everything else that went on over the years, I never really thought about the fact that Halloween is the anniversary of my parents' death." He shrugged and pulled a face at his own oblivious behaviour. "So I went and asked Snape to tell me about my mum."

"You did?" Snape himself would have excoriated her for such a redundant question, but frankly, the idea of Snape and Harry sitting down to discuss Lily Potter née Evans struck her as fantastical. "What did he say?"

Harry gave her a wistful smile. "Actually, he said she was pretty much a mixture of you and Ginny."

"He said that she was like me?" Hermione realised that she was sounding stupid, but couldn't seem to fold her brain around anything more intelligent.

"Well, no. That was my summary of it."

"What exactly did Snape say about me?" The words were out of her mouth before Hermione could think better of them. "I'm sorry! You don't have to answer that. I don't mean to pry."

"That's okay." Harry gave her a tentative smile. "I'd kind of like to talk about it if you didn't mind. I want to make sure I remember everything Snape said."

"I don't mind at all! I just can't even imagine Snape being willing to talk about it to you of all people!"

Harry laughed. "So, I knocked on his study door—not even sure that he'd be there. Obviously, he was, but then I felt terrified! He said, 'Come in,' so I opened the door. Then he did his whole, 'You'd better have a good reason for being here, Mr Potter, or you'll be scrubbing bedpans in the hospital wing for the next four months!' routine."

Hermione grinned at Harry's light-hearted impersonation. "What did you say?" she prompted him. Her stomach was twisted at the idea that Snape had mentioned her.

"I just stood there like an idiot and blurted: 'I was hoping you could tell me about my mum.'"

Hermione covered her eyes. "You're lucky he didn't saddle you with the bedpans!"

"I know!" Harry laughed. "I wish we had a Pensieve," he added, less cheerfully. "There's no way I'm going to remember everything."

Hermione bit down on her lower lip. "I don't have a Pensieve," she said after a moment's hesitation, "but we could view your memory inside your head."

"You mean Legilimency?"

"Yeah." Hermione raised one shoulder disparagingly.

Harry nodded and squared his shoulders. "What do I need to do?"

"Just think about the start of the memory; I promise not to look at anything else." Hermione drew her wand and placed it gently against Harry's temple. She took his hand for good measure. "Are you ready?"

"I warn you," said Harry a little sheepishly, "I was a bit of a prat."

"We don't have to do this."

"No, I want to." Harry squeezed her hand.

Hermione whispered, "_Legilimens_."

Hermione felt her centre of gravity shift. When her world settled, she was present in Snape's office. Unlike with memories viewed in a Pensieve, she had no corporeal body, but even though Harry was—in the memory—standing awkwardly in the open doorway, Hermione could feel that he was present as well, floating, just as she was.

"_Mr Potter." Snape leant back in his chair and steepled his fingers in lieu of punctuation. "I do hope you have a good reason for being out after curfew; if not, you'll be scrubbing bedpans in the Hospital Wing for the foreseeable future."_

"_It's Halloween," responded Harry. He looked terribly nervous. "I—I was hoping you could tell me about my mum."_

_There was a long pause. Snape barely moved; Harry rocked back and forth slightly on the balls of his feet._

"_Sit down, Potter."_

_The relief on Harry's face was almost comical, and he hurried to seat himself before Snape's desk_

"_What do you want to know?"_

_Harry looked a little lost. "Anything. I mean, pretty much the only thing I know about her is that she was good at Potions. I don't even know what she was like."_

"_Lily," said Snape, lingering slightly over her name, "was smart. She was outspoken, sometimes bossy."_

_Harry gave a tremulous smile. "She sounds like Hermione."_

"_Yes and no." Snape straightened his quill where it lay next to a pile of marking. "Lily was never as hard as Hermione is."_

_Hearing Snape talk about her left Hermione breathless._

"_Lily made friends effortlessly," continued Snape. "She could fit in anywhere. She was neither as smart as Hermione is, nor did she suffer from a continual need to demonstrate her intelligence to those around her. At the same time, Lily wasn't as tough, or as loyal as Hermione has proved to be."_

"_Hermione's my best friend," said Harry, unexpectedly. "I mean, Ron's my best friend, but Hermione's my best friend, if you know what I mean."_

_Snape didn't say anything._

"_No-one else could, or would, have done for me what Hermione has done."_

"_You have to be aware, Potter, that the first war unfolded very differently from the last. When Lily and I were at Hogwarts, the Dark Lord was the head of a respected—if occasionally controversial—faction at the Ministry."_

"_What? The Pureblood Party?" Harry sounded disgusted._

_Snape raised one eyebrow at Harry's outburst. "Precisely."_

"_How did __anyone__ fall for that?"_

_Snape sighed and cast his eyes towards the ceiling. "Potter," he said, with all of his usual scorn, but less of the venom, "do try and think about what the wizarding world might have been like at the time. For Muggles, the twentieth century has been a veritable whirlwind of new technologies, from the industrialisation and urbanisation of the early nineteen hundreds to the computers and electronic devices of recent times. With the invention and mass distribution of electricity, and the ever-more-complicated machines that it runs, Muggles have begun to recreate some of the effects that wizards and witches have long taken for granted. And, in English society in particular, the rigid lines of class distinction have begun to crumble._

"_In earlier times Muggle-born wizards and witches not only discovered a secret, magical kingdom on their eleventh birthday, but also gained access to a place where the impossible was suddenly conceivable. Even the meanest wizard lived in a level of comfort that was simply unknown to rural or working-class Muggles—and the small size of the historically moneyed class ensured that the vast majority of Muggle-born wizards and witches were drawn from the lower classes. Wizards had clean, free light beyond sundown, no-one worked in a stinking factory, there was no hard physical labour such as that of Muggle society._

"_At the time, the pureblood families were—with few exceptions—filthy rich, and they operated much as the nobility of Muggle England did: they expected to be treated with a certain level of respect, and through the Wizengamot, they made most of the rules. They saw it as their task to protect the wizarding world under its shield of secrecy, and their traditions were an important means with which to police the dissemination of knowledge."_

_Snape paused. "Can you imagine the terror and greed that would have overwhelmed England had the knowledge of magic spread?"_

_Harry frowned. "Probably not much different from what would happen now."_

"_Yes," acknowledged Snape with a brief inclination of his head, "but consider how the situation began to change during the sixties and seventies. The general English population had a higher standard of living than they had previously enjoyed, even though they remained predominantly working class. Muggle-born witches and wizards arrived with less respect for hallowed notions of birth and nobility. In many cases, there were elements of their earlier lives that they wished to retain. A number of Muggle-borns pushed for higher levels of Muggle and magical co-operation. In some cases, Muggles with a fondness for fantasy novels or science fiction failed to understand the value of the Statue of Secrecy. The situation was fraught."_

"_That doesn't excuse Voldemort's behaviour!"_

"_No."_

_Harry fumed, while Snape watched him over steepled fingertips._

"_Well?" demanded Harry eventually, breaking the long silence. "You can't tell me that my mum was sympathetic to the Pureblood Party!"_

"_No."_

"_Or my dad! Or the Weasleys!"_

_Snape shrugged. "Arthur did his best to rally support against the group, but . . ."_

"_But what?" Harry had worked himself into one of his characteristic rages._

"_But Arthur, like all of the Weasleys, is a Gryffindor."_

_Harry blinked stupidly. "I didn't come here so that you could insult me," he protested._

"_Potter," sighed Snape, "the Ministry—then as now—employed rather more Slytherins than it did Gryffindors. And you needn't glare as if the corruption of the institution should be laid single-handedly at Slytherin feet: my house is characterised by ambition, Potter, not by evil. It provides an excellent background for those who wish for a career in politics, and they arrive at the Ministry with a network of contacts already intact. Gryffindors, on the other hand, rarely have the ability to manoeuvre through the minefield of public office with the necessary subtlety."_

"_How come you liked my mum? She was a Gryffindor." Harry had managed to move from furious to sulky._

"_I had the pleasure of knowing your mother before her house allegiances became apparent," replied Snape reprovingly._

_Another silence stretched between the two men. Hermione watched Snape watching Harry, and she was taken aback when Harry spoke again._

"_Did . . . did she ever speak to you again, after the argument?"_

"_Yes."_

"_Really?" Harry's face brightened perceptibly. "She forgave you? What happened?"_

"_Enough, Potter. I agreed to talk about your mother, not about myself." _

"_I—I'm sorry . . ."_

_Snape scowled. "It's time for you to go."_

"_Can I come back? Another time?"_

_Snape hummed ambiguously. "We'll see," he said._

_Harry got up, visibly reluctant. As he reached the door, he looked back as he pulled the Invisibility cloak out from inside his robes. Hermione thought he might be about to say something further, but Snape interrupted him before he managed to speak._

"_Oh, and Potter?"_

"_Yes, sir."_

"_Ten points from Gryffindor for being out after curfew."_

Hermione gently retreated from Harry's mind, blinking in the sudden glare of the common room fire.

"I thought it would hurt," said Harry. He straightened his glasses and gave her an awkward smile. "The Legilimency, I mean. You know," he added, "I meant it, about you being my best friend."

One side of Hermione's mouth curled upwards. She had a sudden urge to ruffle Harry's hair, but rubbed at her upper arms instead. "Thanks," she said. "The things Snape said about the first war were really interesting." _As were the things he said about me_. But she didn't say that to Harry.

"Yeah," agreed Harry. "I wish Binns were half as interesting. I might even have stayed in History of Magic."

They sat there in a companionable silence for a while, staring into the fire.

"Hey, Harry, would you do me a favour?"

He looked at her expectantly.

"Make up with Ron?"

Harry pulled a face. "It may not seem like it," he said plaintively, "but I'm trying so hard to be a grown up!"

Hermione couldn't help laughing. "You idiot."

"Pretty much," he agreed.

* * *

><p>Hermione went up to bed, but she was too wired to sleep. Instead, she pulled her bed curtains closed and furnished herself with paper and a sharp pencil. Her head was spinning, and in such circumstances, there were few things that helped as well as Arithmancy.<p>

She divided out her page into quintants and labelled them with her prevalent emotions: jealousy, pain, confusion, excitement, delight. She put Snape at the centre where the axes crossed, and distributed the other factors as best she could. Harry and his mother went into "jealousy"; the silent treatment went into "pain"; Snape's comments about her to Harry went into "delight", as did his vigil by her bedside. Poppy Pomfrey's comments went into "excitement", and as Hermione thought about what the nurse had said, she doodled swirls and runes around the border of her page.

_Snape uses his everyday behaviour to distract people from what he's actually up to._

So what was he up to?

Hermione turned her page over and made two columns. In one, she listed his everyday behaviour: lack of eye contact, the silent treatment, the ridiculous Potions' assignment on Wartcap mushrooms. In the other, she put the way he'd lunged and caught her in McGonagall's office and his promise to watch over her while she slept.

Her heart was beating fast.

The only explanation that made any sense was that Snape cared about her, but was trying to hide it.

_Get a grip, Granger_, she muttered, forcing herself to take several deep breaths. _It just means that he cares if you get hurt, that's it. Nothing . . . more._

What would happen, she wondered, if she turned up at his office to visit him—like Harry had? Would he talk to her?

Hermione lay back on her pillow and fantasised about wandering down to the dungeons that very minute. He'd been angry with her once before, she remembered, and she'd turned up in his office and found herself on the receiving end of an impassioned apology.

She'd have to have something worth talking to him about, she decided. Snape wasn't about to provide her with an opportunity, she'd have to carve it out for herself. The question was, what?

When she finally fell asleep, one small fact kept repeating in her mind: in Harry's memory, Snape had called her "Hermione."

* * *

><p>Hermione was eating porridge and revising her Muggle Studies reading when Harry came down to breakfast the next morning. With a set jaw, he plonked himself down in an empty seat opposite Neville and Ron.<p>

"'Morning," he said stiffly.

For a second, conversation stilled.

"Good morning," replied Neville.

"Have a sausage, mate," said Ron, pushing across a platter that he'd been hoarding.

"Thanks."

Hermione let out a long sigh of relief and raised her eyes to share a conspiratorial wink with Ginny.

"So," said Harry to Neville, pausing to swallow a mouthful of breakfast, "I don't suppose Ron managed to find out who you want to take to the Yule Ball, yet?"

"Nope," replied Neville firmly. "And he's not going to."

"Well, you're still going to have to ask someone, Neville," interjected Ron.

"Nope," said Neville again. "I don't have to ask anyone. I'm going to go on my own."

"You can't!"

"Can too. I'm going to set up a special table just for bachelors. You can sit with me, if you want, Harry."

Harry paused and stared at Neville for a long moment.

"Yeah, actually," he said finally. "I'd like that."

"What? You can't! What about me?" Ron's outrage was almost comical.

"What about you?" asked Neville. "You'll be dancing with Hermione." He jerked his head in Hermione's direction.

"What a fucking disaster," muttered Ginny. "I'm off to class," she announced more loudly, pushing back her chair and stalking away.

Neville was elaborating on his plans. "We can drink butterbeer, and talk about Quidditch as much as we want. Dean can sit with us if Padma still hasn't forgiven him. There'll be no girls allowed! And no boys with girlfriends, either."

"But—"

"Personally, I think it's a great idea," said Harry firmly, cutting across Ron's protestations.

Ron was fuming, and following Ginny's lead suddenly appeared as an extraordinarily attractive proposition. Hermione grabbed a piece of toast for the walk and set her books to follow her with a wave of her wand.

"I'm off to the library," she announced to everyone and no-one. "See you all later!"

She could hear Ron's complaints and protests right up until she left the Great Hall and stepped into the foyer.

* * *

><p>AN: So, the plot (or the plots? sometimes I'm not sure myself) thickens . . .

And, did you notice, A WHOLE DAY EARLY on my once-a-week chapter diet? Truth is I'm going to be up all night working on some writing I have to get done for work and I figured that A) if I got this out of the way first, I might not be so distracted, and B) that any reviews might inspire me into the confidence I need. So go on, I beg you! Leave a review. ;)


	15. Chapter 14: Famine

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 14: Famine

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

I've been struck lately by the handful of familiar names appearing among the reviews—people who have been following this story for a long time, some even since the first installment (years ago!). In a moment of procrastination, I flipped through the reviews for Phoenix Song to find out who'd been with me the longest. The answer? Amathya. So, then, Amathya, this one is for you . . . and I apologise in advance for the LARGE dose of angst! ;)

* * *

><p>Severus pushed back from his workbench in frustration. Spread before him were the ingredients for another batch of Wolfsbane, efficiently prepped and laid out with an eye to order. He had plenty of time to get the potion to a stable state before the Slytherin-Gryffindor Quidditch match, but little motivation. Even without kindling a flame under his cauldron he felt certain that this modification would be every bit as much of a failure as his other variants.<p>

"What are you going to do with your life, Snivellus," he mocked himself—in a poor but recognisable impersonation of Potter's voice—"cure lycanthropy?"

The turmoil of the last few weeks had affected Severus far more than he wanted to admit, even to himself. Several urgent Order meetings had produced no promising solutions to the quandary of the Elder Wand and, in Kingsley's absence, the remaining members were visibly disheartened. Vector and Granger had crunched calculation after calculation, Minerva and Filius had exhausted the Hogwarts Wand-Lore references, William Weasley had made discreet inquiries through the International Network of Curse Handlers (I.N.C.H.)—all to no avail.

The Order was at loss with regard to the wand and at loss with how to deal with the existence of a group of would-be Death Eaters. Severus had compiled an extensive list of all surviving Death Eaters and sympathisers, and scoured it for patterns. But without further knowledge of the group and their plans, everything seemed pointless.

To cope with his anxiety, he had exhausted all of his well-worn methods of distraction: he'd deducted house points from every Gryffindor in each of his classes for a new record of six consecutive days, he'd restocked the cupboards of the Hospital Wing during several all-night brewing marathons, he'd run each morning and walked the halls late each evening.

Still, he felt perpetually on edge. He was so tense in the evenings that he had been ready to throttle a Slytherin student who'd been foolish enough to knock on his office door at precisely eight o'clock. The crushing disappointment of each consecutive evening without Granger's presence had become so intense that he began to avoid his own rooms between seven and eleven just so that false hope could be avoided entirely.

What did he expect? That she would turn up unannounced and forgive all of his bad behaviour? And what would he do if she did? His self control on this matter was laughable. To spend time alone with her would be dangerous beyond belief.

The whole problem, he had realised eventually, was compounded by his inability to stay furious with Harry Potter. Twice the boy had come to him, wanting to talk. TWICE. The second time was almost accidental: stalking the corridors one night, well after curfew, Severus had been put on guard by an odd noise near the long windows of the east gallery. He'd almost hexed Potter when the dunderheaded boy suddenly pulled off his Invisibility Cloak and announced, "It's me, sir."

The memory of the ensuing conversation returned to haunt Severus several times a day:

"_Forty points from Gryffindor, Potter. Get back to your dormitory immediately."_

"_Actually, sir, I wouldn't mind your advice."_

"_I hold office hours at a perfectly reasonable time of day."_

"_I know. I did think about coming, but this is easier." Potter turned and gazed out the long window beside them. "How do you cope with the constant stress?"_

"_I deduct house points. Speaking of which—"_

_Potter laughed, looking surprised at himself. Severus toyed with the idea of placing the boy in a full body bind and Levitating him back to Gryffindor tower, but without any real intention to act._

"_The Sorting Hat almost put me in Slytherin, you know," remarked Potter, his eyes still fixed on the distant horizon._

_Severus let out a noisy breath through his nose and turned to lean his hips against the windowsill. For a long moment, neither man said anything._

"_Sometimes," said Potter, "I feel like a deadly cancer. Like I'm a danger magnet who puts everyone around him in harm's way. Sometimes I feel sure that the best thing for everybody would be for me to disappear." _

Why are you telling me this?

"_Except . . . except that I don't think I could. Where would I go?"_

_Severus cleared his throat. "Are you asking me for suggestions?"_

_Unbelievably, Potter laughed again. In fact, the whole conversation was unbelievable. Severus wondered what Lily would have thought to see them there together, talking, at half-past-one in the morning. He wondered what Hermione would think._

"_No, I just . . . I dunno. I just don't know how to cope."_

_Potter turned beseeching green eyes upon him._

_As if Severus had a solution. As if Severus himself would be wandering the halls if he himself knew how to sleep. Potter should be having this conversation with someone else._

"_You cope," he said heavily, "because there is no other option."_

"_Well, I knew you wouldn't sugar-coat things."_

"_Personally, Potter, I would stop wallowing and worry about the upcoming Quidditch match instead. The new Slytherin team is looking very good." There was no cruelty in his words and no gentleness either. Severus managed an entirely neutral tone._

_Potter swelled his chest with a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. "Actually," he replied, his tone noticeably lighter, "I think Gryffindor has the game in the bag, sir."_

"_Go to bed, Potter, before you lose any more house points."_

"_Yes, sir." Potter nodded. "Thanks for listening."_

_Severus rolled his eyes. "Now, Potter."_

_The boy ducked his head and left, leaving Severus staring out the window wondering how things had reached such a pass: willing to offer Potter counsel and yet ignoring Granger._

Severus blinked himself back into the present and cast an Imperturbable Charm over the bench of sensitive potions ingredients. Hooch would be down at the pitch already, but there was a good chance that Poppy might be found in the staff room, and at the very least, he could eat a currant scone and try not to "wallow."

The students were clustered in chattering groups throughout the hallways; their excitement at the approaching Quidditch evident in the animation of their gestures and their prominently displayed team colours. Each group in red and gold caught at his attention, but though he looked for her each time, she was nowhere to be seen.

_How come it's always Granger who ends up hurt?_

Yet another night spent watching over her in the Hospital Wing. Yet another set of bad dreams, this one involving barbed harpoons and torn flesh.

Yet another misstep in his attempts to keep her at arm's length.

Severus reached the staff room and scanned the faces of the occupants. No Poppy, no Minerva. Surprisingly, Kaleisha was present—she was around very little, and never on the weekends. Noting his arrival, she broke off a conversation with Filius and waved a friendly hello. Severus gave a curt nod in acknowledgement, but instead of taking her up on the evident invitation, he walked past them to the pastry cart and chose the largest available scone.

As always, the baked goods were warm and fragrant. Somehow, the house elves kept them perpetually in just-out-of-the-oven perfection. Severus buttered the scone carefully and carried it to an empty armchair before he took a bite. Only then did he lend an ear to whatever it was Kaleisha was saying to induce such laughter from Filius.

". . . truthfully, I'm surprised that my NEWTs students haven't yet staged a revolution. I've been boring them senseless for weeks."

"Impossible! No-one could fail to be captivated—"

"I'm quite serious, Filius! I've spent the entire term covering material that they should have already known. All the smart kids are about ready to kill me."

Frankly, Severus was hard pressed to see why Filius was hanging upon every word of this conversation. He took another bite of scone.

"Charity Burbage was a brave woman, and principled, but her grasp of Muggle Studies was sadly out of date . . ."

_Charity Burbage._

Severus put his scone down as carefully as possible. His stomach turned with an old, familiar nausea. He forced down the mouthful he had already taken, then banished all evidence of his morning tea. He had to get out of the staff room. He had to go. Now.

Once more in the corridors, Severus was briefly at a loss. Several minutes into what seemed an aimless—if brisk—path through the castle, though, he realised that he did have a destination in mind. Somewhat awkwardly, he knocked on Vector's door.

When the door opened to reveal the Arithmancy professor herself, a ridiculous disappointment clutched at his stomach. _You didn't come to see Granger,_ he reminded himself, _you came to speak to Vector._

"Coffee?" Vector looked tired, and though she smiled perfunctorily when he appeared in her doorway, it lacked her usual spark.

"Yes." Severus folded his body into the chair opposite Vector's desk. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Vector pulled a face. "It's the matrix," she replied as she spooned coffee grinds into her briki and conjured a flame. "Something, some element in the Order to be precise, is not living up to its full potential."

"It's my leadership." Some part of his brain was dwelling on the fact that Granger must regularly sit in the chair he was occupying. Her hands must rest in the place that his were resting now.

"That, my friend, it is not." Vector shot him a rather-too-sympathetic look before turning back to the bubbling pot. "I've checked over and over again, and you remain the best choice. No, it's something about the relationships. I'm so sure that what I've calculated is accurate . . . and yet something isn't working right. The disjunction between the probability axis and the reality curve is too high—and too consistent to attribute to standard statistical variation."

"What does that mean?"

Vector shrugged, her hands spread wide in an exaggerated gesture of uncertainty. "It just means that someone, or someones, are not acting according to their nature."

"We could have a traitor."

"Unlikely." Vector wrinkled her nose. "I'm pretty sure its not on that scale. No, this is just about behaviour, but it does throw out my calculations—subtly . . . but still."

"How can we fix it?"

Vector lifted the briki and poured the viscous black contents into two tiny cups. "My best hope," she replied as she passed over his coffee, "is that Hermione is going to notice something I have missed. I've had her re-checking the entire matrix ever since term started."

Just the mention of her name called up the image of her face, and in his mind's eye Severus replayed the awful moment from Minerva's office: the odd way Granger had moved, and the unfathomable look she'd given him as she reached behind herself and touched the wound in her back. Severus tightened his grip around the warm cup.

"At first," continued Vector, "I thought the problem was probably within the trio themselves. I thought the relationship between Hermione and the Weasley boy might cause problems, or fracture their loyalties to Harry and to each other." Vector frowned and shook her head slightly. She twisted in her chair and with a wave of her wand, filled the many blackboards of the back wall with dense, ridiculously complicated calculations. "But now I don't think so. In fact, I'm sure that's not it. Their section of equations is working as well as ever, and as we saw in the Hogsmeade attack, they managed—once again—to bring each other back."

"We can't let something like that happen again; it was far too close for comfort." _My comfort, her comfort_. Granger had been injured saving Weasley's life, and that small fact lay bitter across the back of his throat.

"I'm sorry." Vector gave herself a visible shake. "You came here, no doubt with questions, and I have just burdened you with my own worries."

"This is important."

"Yes, and I will solve it."

Severus looked at her through narrowed eyes.

"Come, Severus, this is my job. And I'm good at it." Vector smiled at him with something of her more usual warmth. "How can I help you?"

"The children," he said. A sudden rush of awkwardness left him with the sensation that he was lying.

_You didn't come here to see Granger._

Vector sighed and then nodded. "I thought it was just a matter of time before you wanted to see those calculations for yourself." She flourished her wand at the board behind her and a section of the massive wall of equations peeled away and flew over to her desk. Vector propped a much smaller board against a stand and tapped it with the point of her wand; the airborne numbers and symbols rearranged themselves obligingly, wiggling slightly before they adhered to the new surface.

Severus knew enough Arithmancy that he could follow Vector's train of numbers about fifty percent of the time, though he would have been hard pressed to formulate anything but the most simple parts of it on his own.

"This stands for injuries?" he queried.

"Yes. This is interesting, actually. Look here. I calculated the affect on injuries and death rates for underage student members of the Order: injuries went up, while the number of deaths is predicted to decrease."

"The decrease is only very slight," noted Severus, a furrow between his brows.

"A death is a death, Severus," remarked Vector in a neutral voice, though her reproof was clear.

"That's not what I meant," he said. "These numbers represent probabilities, not—"

Vector waved a hand dismissively. "I also ran a long-term prognosis." She pointed towards a different, even more complicated equation than the one based in the near future probability spectrum. "Participation in the Order _greatly_ reduces early deaths beyond graduation and raises their quality of life by an astronomical proportion."

Severus didn't recognise the rune she'd translated as "quality of life," but he could read the percentages the equation solved at: 59% and 78% respectively. Another man might have whistled, but Severus merely pursed his lips slightly.

The large number of student members—even the large number of Slytherins—left Severus uncomfortable. After years in which he himself had been the only Order member drawn from his house, years in which the systemic exclusion of which that spoke left him furious and bitter, it was odd to find himself in charge of the organisation, and even odder to see the Malfoys and Tracey Davis, even Theodore Nott, turning up at meetings. Since Milton Hammerbright had been involved in the last attack, there'd been talk of bringing him on board, too.

His Slytherins bore themselves well, he had noted with some pride—neither too stand-offish or too eager to please. Jocelyn, of course, didn't doubt her right to be there for a second, and the others were following her lead. Still, he worried about them all. The younger children, in particular, made apparent the risks of the situation just by their very presence. Staring at the math, however, he couldn't deny anyone, least of all his Slytherins, their chance at living through those figures.

"Come, Severus." Vector broke his reverie. "I have no doubt that you're headed to the Quidditch match; I'll walk you down."

Severus rose to his feet as Vector cleared away their coffee things. Together, they walked through the school, pausing only to wait for a staircase to move their way, and then again when the stairs they were taking suddenly swung out over the stairwell and put them out on a different side. Severus was relieved to find that Vector walked just as quickly as he did, and that she held her tongue. When they reached the Quidditch pitch, he—rather stiffly—invited her to come and sit with the Slytherin contingent.

"Thank you, but no thank you. I'm going to sit in neutral territory and cheer on all of the Arithmancy students, regardless of their house."

With a smile, Vector disappeared into the stands, and Severus made his own way up the Slytherin staircase and found himself a seat. It was early enough that Hooch was still flying an observation lap of the perimeter, checking that nothing had been tampered with. Krum, who seemed to have appointed himself assistant Quidditch coach, was duplicating her movements in the reverse direction and attracting a lot of attention from the female students.

Finally, as Severus cast an eye over the crowd, he spotted Granger. The wind had loosed her hair, and she was laughing at something Longbottom had said. As he watched, she pulled several long curls out of her eyes and tried, with limited success, to bind the whole back from her face. With narrowed eyes, Severus looked for any sign that she remained worse the wear for her most recent sojourn in the Infirmary, but on the surface, at least, she looked fine.

Unexpectedly, terror swept over Severus, leaving him flushed and breathing heavily. _How much longer?_ he wondered. _When will it end?_

Where was the happy ending that should have followed Voldemort's defeat? Why couldn't he just have a peaceful life, without death and destruction behind every door?

Minerva's magically magnified voice calling everyone to order brought him back to the present, and Severus dragged his eyes from Granger's face towards the dressing room doorways. Cho Chang's voice replaced Minerva's, engaging in idle speculation about the game's results.

When the teams emerged from their dressing rooms, an excited murmur was audible underneath the cheers of the houses involved in the game: not in living memory had Slytherin fielded such a team. Only Goyle and Draco remained from the earlier line up, though Draco had switched positions to Chaser, and with Millicent Bulstrode (as Beater), Jocelyn (as Seeker), and Astoria Greengrass (Chaser), the team was almost even in terms of gender balance. Graham Pritchard was playing Keeper, and Milton Hammerbright rounded out the team as the third Chaser.

When Hooch blew the whistle, the teams leapt skywards. Severus watched Jocelyn soar up to a lookout position. She boldly marked out her own course, avoiding the tendency evidenced by most Hogwarts Seekers to shadow Potter. Severus nodded approvingly: she'd win or lose on her own merits.

Gryffindor managed to snag the Quaffle first and got a goal past Pritchard, who looked nervous. They got a second soon afterwards, and Severus folded his hands deep into the sleeves of his robes. It took twenty minutes before Slytherin got a decent run with the Quaffle, but once they did, they looked good. Draco, Astoria and Milton worked well together. Their first goal was a model of teamwork and Chaser positioning, with the three of them flying in tight formation and a nice set of passes. At the last minute, Draco feinted left and sent Weasley leaping wide of his hoop, before gently touching the ball through the centre post. The Slytherin spectators went wild, and Severus himself set off several loud claps of thunder as a sign of his delight.

Forty-five minutes later, the pattern of the game had emerged: Gryffindor's superior experience was telling and they held the lead, 90-50. Slytherin were doing well, however, regardless of their trailing score, and the game was far from lost. Pritchard was the weakest link. The Beaters were doing an excellent job in defence, cutting down more than half of Gryffindor's attacks before they reached his hands, though and the Chasers worked remarkably well together—even if they didn't have the fluidity that could only come with years of practice.

The Slytherin team's biggest problem was Ronald Weasley: he was having an extraordinary match. He and Draco seemed locked in a private battle, with each interaction winching the stakes higher. Again and again the two boys faced off in front of the goals. They both seemed to be taking it personally. There was an edge to their interactions that wasn't present amongst the other players, despite the long history of Slytherin-Gryffindor antagonism.

Jocelyn was flying strategic loops over the pitch, always with Potter in view. She did some neat evasive manoeuvres in order to avoid several Bludgers, but for the main part, kept her flying simple. Potter feinted once, dropping suddenly into a headlong dive. Jocelyn followed him precisely—pulling out only fractions of a second after he had. Having tested her mettle, Potter returned his concentration to the search for the Snitch.

It took another half an hour before either Seeker caught sight of the tiny golden ball—time well spent by the spectators enjoying the tense antipathy of Draco and Weasley's interaction—then they both sighted it simultaneously. Severus calculated that the Snitch fell slightly closer to Potter than it did to Jocelyn, but she had the faster broom, and that advantage was soon equalised.

Severus rose to his feel, propelled by the excitement of the moment. All around him, Slytherin house roared their encouragement.

Potter and Jocelyn raced towards the Snitch from different angles, their Quidditch robes streaming out behind them like banners.

With the score at 160-120, the Snitch would decide the game.

They were twenty metres from the Snitch. Eight. They were going to crash.

At the last moment, the Snitch changed direction and fluttered almost directly into Potter's hand. Both Seekers pulled up awkwardly, narrowly avoiding the threatened collision. Severus could see the naked disappointment on Jocelyn's face.

As the Gryffindor crowds screamed their appreciation, Potter looked surprised and somewhat apologetic. He and Jocelyn were only metres apart and he leaned over his broom handle and said something unintelligible. Jocelyn nodded and gave him a smile that didn't reach her eyes. Then she flew down and landed near the rest of her team.

As her feet touched the ground she turned toward the stands and sought out Snape.

Still on his feet, he met her gaze. Carefully, purposefully, he nodded. _Bad luck_, he thought. _Nothing but bad luck_.

Jocelyn nodded back, then straightened her shoulders and turned towards the other members of her team. Severus heard Draco encourage her as she reached him: "Bad luck."

"You were amazing," she replied. Moving quickly, Jocelyn made her way around the group and patted them each on the back or arm. She went next to the other team and, with admirable grace and poise, shook hands with each of her opponents, congratulating them on their flying and teamwork.

Severus lowered himself back into his seat and watched as hordes of student spectators flooded onto the pitch, congratulating and commiserating with the players. Granger was there, of course, hugging everyone in sight. Changing his plans abruptly, Severus decided to leave. If he went back to his lab immediately, he could make one further attempt on the Wolfsbane before dinner. Even the certainty of experimental failure was better than sitting here and watching Granger celebrate with Krum, Longbottom and the entire Gryffindor Quidditch team.

Just out of the stands he was waylaid by bony fingers around his upper arm.

"What a match!"

Severus turned towards Minerva. Her eyes were gleaming and two red spots coloured her cheekbones with excitement.

"Weasley was magnificent!" she enthused further, unperturbed by his lack of response. "Absolutely magnificent!"

"Unhand me."

"Your Slytherins did a reasonable job, I suppose," she continued.

Given previous occasions, she would be insufferable for at least 24 hours. "You're creasing my robes," he said, ignoring her direct provocation.

"Yes." Minerva smiled. "And now that you've lost yet another bet, it will be a long while before you can afford new ones."

"I wouldn't get too cocky, Headmistress. As I recall, the account remains several Galleons in my favour."

Minerva's smile deepened to the point where her dimple was clearly visible. "That's true. But at least now you're obliged to attend the Yule Ball! I have no intention of letting you wriggle out of that."

Severus sighed. He would have had to go anyway, but it had been a lovely fantasy to imagine himself remaining in his rooms, alone.

Minerva gave him a last smile and patted his arm where she had gripped it so tightly. "Drinks at mine, tonight. Don't be late."

Severus checked his watch. He did have time to get the potion brewing, but only just.

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><p>AN: Sigh. I'm afraid that Severus was very recalcitrant this week. I can, however, promise that something—something exciting—is going to happen next week once Hermione is back in charge of the POV once more. What do you think it will be? Professor Grangerous will happily give house points if you guess right ;)


	16. Chapter 15: Bergamot and Aconite

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 15: Bergamot and Aconite

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

Can I just say how much I've been enjoying dedicating the chapters to people? Your reviews really make my day, and it feels so NICE to reward you in turn with some sign of my appreciation. This chapter (with it's promised "exciting" development), then, is for ALL OF YOU. Whether you've ever written me a review or not.

Oh, and there are house points for heartmom88, who was first in line with an accurate guess about what might happen next . . . ;p

* * *

><p>"But I just don't get why! I mean, they're supposed to be my mates, and now they say I can't sit with them!"<p>

Hermione swallowed a sigh. Ron's obsession with Neville's love life had been kind of sweet, his fixation on the bachelors' table, however, was tedious. During the last ten days Ron had had precisely two topics of conversations, and the other involved the recent Quidditch match. Okay, three. Sometimes he talked about Draco Malfoy.

"Gosh, is that the time!" Hermione rose to her feet with barely concealed relief. "I have to run and meet Ginny to get ready for the ball!"

"What? Already?"

She gave Ron a perfunctory kiss on the top of his head and beat a retreat to the stairwell. The common room was emptying out quickly. Fortunately, Parvati and Lavender had decamped to prepare in Padma's room several hours earlier, and Ginny and Hermione were able to commandeer the "eighth-year" dorm with a clear conscience.

Ginny arrived within minutes of Hermione, a bag of cosmetics bobbing along behind her and a velvet garment bag over one arm.

"Wotcher."

"Hey." Hermione was lining up three large bottles of Sleekeazy on her dressing table.

"You're going to die when you see my new robes," said Ginny, setting the garment bag to hang in midair beside Hermione's bed. When she turned back towards Hermione she wore a very satisfied grin.

"Really? Show me!"

"Uh uh. I want to save it until my hair's done and you can get the whole effect."

"I thought you were going to wear Katriona's silver strapless number," remarked Hermione, loosening her hair from its long braid and seating herself in front of the mirror.

"Well, turns out that something better came along." Ginny waggled her eyebrows and did her best "mysterious" expression. "Now, get the first bottle of that stuff onto your head, this is going to take hours."

It did, indeed, take hours. Ginny combed unceasingly, Hermione added more potion at regular intervals, and they both chatted. It was a huge relief, realised Hermione, _not_ to be stuck in a one-sided conversation with Ron. Yet curiously, despite the huge resentment she felt towards him, she found herself defending his behaviour to Ginny.

"Sure, it irritates me too, but—"

"But what? Right now he barely hears a word anyone else says!"

"But that's exactly it! Ever since all the stuff that happened last year"—Hermione often found herself using elaborate circumlocutions for "the Final Battle"—"he's been almost too cheerful, too supportive, too considerate. It's as if he needs to keep everybody happy and friendly in order to cope. I think that for him, the idea that everyone is in it together is the only thing keeping him together."

"Huh. Put on more Sleekeazy."

Ginny wasn't arguing with her, and as Hermione squirted another generous dollop of sickly pink she pushed onwards.

"He never talks about anything that happened, you know. Never anything about Fred, or the fighting, or Malfoy Manor, or . . . anything important."

"Huh," said Ginny a second time. "He won't talk about it with me, either, but I figured that you two . . ."

For a long moment, neither one of them said anything, although Hermione watched Ginny's face carefully in the mirror.

"He's still being a prat, but I guess I'll try to put up with it a bit better." Ginny pulled a face that made Hermione laugh. "You know," she added, changing the topic, "I think we might be nearly done here . . ."

Ginny's dress robes, when she finally put them on, were stunning. Partly it was the cut—sleeveless, with a short, rigid collar and a narrow slash of a neckline that plunged almost to her belly button—but mostly it was the fabric. The robes were an incredible coppery green and looked like they'd been forged from impossibly thin, impossibly soft metal.

"Gin!" breathed Hermione. "You look beautiful!"

"Thanks." Gin smiled a little self consciously and ran one hand over the smooth curve of her French twist. "You don't look half bad, yourself."

Hermione had no misapprehensions: she looked good in her coffee-coloured robes, but compared to Ginny's extraordinary elegance, her own outfit paled.

"Come on, let's go down," replied Hermione. "Ron will be waiting."

Hermione let Ginny proceed her down the staircase, wanting her to have the grand entrance that her robes so clearly deserved. She didn't expect to step into an argument as she stepped into the common room.

"Where in Merlin's furry pants did you get those robes?" demanded Ron.

Ginny's back was up. "George bought them for me."

"They must have cost a bloody fortune!" Ron had flushed a rather disagreeable shade of red.

"I didn't realise you were a sartorial expert," retorted Ginny, her own face was rigid with anger, and two small red spots burned on her cheeks.

Hermione noticed that Harry stood off to one side, an awkward, blank look on his face, and one hand half extended as if too pull his best friend away. This cannot have been the meeting that Ginny had hoped for.

"I can't believe you let him waste such a large amount of money on your robes!"

"I beg your pardon?" Ginny stepped closer to her brother and poked him sharply in the chest. "Who paid for your robes?"

"The twins did!" Ron spluttered for a second. "That's not the point! I'll bet that they didn't cost anywhere near as much as those did!"

Ginny ran a hand over her admirably flat stomach. "Clearly George knew that I had the superior taste." Before Ron could wrap his mouth around his next expostulation, she glanced over her shoulder at Hermione. "I'll see you later, Hermione." She graced Ron with a last, withering look. "Perhaps you should abandon this orang-utan to the bachelors' table, he's not very good company."

Ginny stalked off, her head held high. Her passage through the common room garnered a couple of wolf-whistles, which she acknowledged with a fierce, glittering smile; then she was gone.

"How do you like that?" asked Ron of the room at large.

"Come on," said Hermione firmly, trying to make the best of a terrible start to the evening. She grabbed Ron by the arm and pulled him along behind her. He kept up a steady stream of outraged commentary on his sister's behaviour.

Once Hermione made it through the portrait hole and out into the corridor, she dragged Ron into the first available classroom.

"Ron, shut up."

He stopped complaining mid-sentence and looked at her in pained surprise.

"This is supposed to be a nice evening. Don't ruin it before it's even begun."

"But—"

"But, nothing, Ron. You're my boyfriend. I want you to tell me I look nice, I want you to pay me some attention, and I want to go to the ball. Is that too much to ask for?"

Ron blinked at her for a second. "You look nice, Hermione. You look really, really nice. Gorgeous." He reached out and grabbed both of her shoulders. "You did that special thing with your hair, you look hot in these robes."

He was trying too hard, but the fact that he was trying at all counted for a lot right then.

"Okay, enough." Hermione gave him half of a smile.

"I'm sorry," said Ron. He leant forwards and rested his forehead on hers. "I don't know why Ginny got me so riled up."

"Let's go to the ball, you prat."

Ron offered his arm gallantly, and they headed out of the classroom and made their way down to the Great Hall. Flitwick had outdone himself with the decorations this year. Silver fairies fluttered throughout the room in thick, shimmering swarms, and enchanted sprigs of holly and garlands of fir branches festooned the walls and tables. Music was already playing, and a number of students were already spinning and swaying on the dance floor. Hermione's heart rose.

"Madam," said Ron, "may I have this dance?"

"On the condition that you never call me madam, ever again," replied Hermione with a smile, "you may."

There was a fragility to the peace between them that left Hermione feeling a little off kilter, but she forced herself to concentrate on the moment. She was at the ball. She was dancing with her boyfriend. He was not talking about Quidditch, or about Neville.

Once the other Gryffindor boys arrived and claimed one of the largest round tables, in a shadowy corner not too far from the dance floor, the situation became less tenable. Hermione could sense Ron's increasing distraction, though she tried not to let on that she'd noticed, and he was clearly trying hard not to let her know how much of his attention was focussed on his male friends. Hermione pressed her face closer against Ron's robes and closed her eyes. She took in deep breaths of his clean, outdoorsy smell. _Cut grass_, she reminded herself. _He smells good._ But when she realised that Ron was dancing in such a way as to keep the "bachelors' table" in sight at all times, something inside her seemed to snap.

"Just stop," she said, and stepped backwards, breaking out of Ron's embrace.

"What's the matter? You don't want to dance anymore?"

"No, actually." Hermione paused and took a deep breath. "Look," she said more calmly. "Just go and sit with them."

Ron looked confused and just a little stricken.

"I mean it." She realised that she did. "Right now, neither of us are really having fun."

The stricken expression deepened. "It's a sweet offer, Hermione, but pointless. You know Neville won't let anyone join the table who has a girlfriend. Besides, I won't abandon you. Not again."

His last two words hung in the air. Hermione felt a terrible wrenching pain below her breastbone.

"Ron," she said, drawing out the vowel of his name into a noise that was both chastisement and forgiveness.

"I'm sorry," he said. He ran a hand down his face. "I know I'm being a crap boyfriend tonight. I just . . . I just feel . . . betrayed. They're supposed to be my mates!"

"Come on." Hermione sighed and grabbed his hand.

She pulled him over to the Gryffindor boys' table. Dean was in the middle of some long elaborate story that had Seamus and Neville in hoots of laughter, but at her approach, they abruptly stopped.

"Hey," said Neville accusingly. "You can't come over here, this is a private table!"

Several of the others chimed in, but Hermione cut across all of them.

"Shut up." She was taking real pleasure in that particular phrase this evening. They really were behaving like children, and she felt a genuine wave of compassion for Ron and his hurt feelings. How dare they spoil her evening? "Ron and I are breaking up."

"We are?" Ron looked like she'd slapped him.

"Yes," she said, turning towards him and prying his fingers away from her hand. "We're having a trial separation."

"But—"

Hermione reached out and patted him on the cheek. "Enjoy the rest of your evening, I'll talk to you at breakfast." She turned away and sought eye contact with Harry. "Take care of him, won't you?" she asked, jerking her thumb over her shoulder at Ron, who looked completely lost. "I don't think he's taking it very well."

"Yeah," said Harry. He pulled out his wand and Summoned an empty chair from an adjacent table. "Sit down, mate."

Harry gave Hermione a very understanding look; she gave him a wry smile in return. Then she left them to it. She had no immediate desire to walk out onto the dance floor, so she walked around the circle of tables instead, picking out the drinks table as a destination of sorts. She felt lighter, a little lonely, and slightly at a loss as to what to do, but definitely better than before.

_You can't be the belle of the ball every time_, she told herself. She looked around for Viktor and caught sight of him over at the staff table, enthusiastically conversing with McGonagall. _Transfiguration, or Quidditch?_ she wondered.

"Hermione! You look beautiful!" Jocelyn interrupted her increasingly melancholy musings.

"Thank you!" Hermione took in Jocelyn's outfit. "You look rather handsome yourself," she added. "Are those Draco's old dress robes?"

"They are." Jocelyn struck a pose with one hand on her hip. "I'm glad you like them."

"I'm glad you finally saw sense and got rid of that dreadful bore I saw you with earlier." Ginny appeared at Hermione's right side and slipped her hand into the crook of Hermione's elbow. "Hey, Jocelyn," she added, "did you come with Milt?"

Hermione glanced around for the young boy who was Jocelyn's most frequent companion.

"Nope," replied Jocelyn. "Technically, since we're third years, we're not supposed to be here. I got Draco to invite me as his date."

Hermione grinned, and her eyebrows shot skywards.

"At least your brother is nicer than mine—"

"Don't scowl, Gin, it spoils the dress." With Ginny, as with Molly, it was a good strategy to head the conversation away from treacherous waters quickly. The effect was immediate: a calm, almost beatific smile wiped the frown from Ginny's face.

"Better?" she asked.

"Much."

"In that case, I'd best begin stage two of my plan: finding a dance partner who will leave Harry curdled with jealousy."

"I'll dance with you," offered Jocelyn.

Ginny blinked, and then took a moment to eye the younger girl from head to toe. "Thank you for the invitation," she said finally, "but it might not have the desired effect on Mr Potter. I think it needs to be a bloke."

"You could dance with Draco, if you want," offered Jocelyn, apparently unperturbed by Ginny's refusal.

"Really?" Ginny's eyes gleamed. "He would do that? He would be perfect!"

"Of course, he'd do anything I asked."

"Lead on, Miss Malfoy! I place myself in your capable hands!" Ginny threaded her hand through Jocelyn's proffered arm and allowed herself to be pulled away through the crowd. Over her shoulder she glanced back at Hermione and mouthed, "She's gay?"

Hermione smiled and shrugged before Ginny and Jocelyn disappeared, then resumed her walk towards the drink table.

"I'd avoid the punch if I were you," advised Hooch as Hermione picked up a glass. "I've seen three separate people adding suspicious substances to the brew."

"Thanks." Hermione wisely poured herself a glass of pumpkin juice.

Hooch was standing beside the table, surveying the dancers, and Hermione paused beside her for a moment and took a sip of her drink.

"You're not dancing this year?" she asked.

Hooch glanced at her out of the corner of her eyes. "No."

Hermione furrowed her brows in an attempt to dredge up memories. "Didn't you dance with Professor Dumbledore at the last Yule Ball?"

"Ah, yes." Hooch raised her own glass—of punch—in a toast. "Albus was gentleman enough to let me lead."

Hermione turned her head and let her gaze sweep from Hooch's spiky grey hair, down her masculine robes, to the sensible boots that were visible beneath. She thought about Jocelyn in her brother's robes and she wondered why she hadn't ever seen a same-sex couple twirling around the Hogwarts dance floor. On sudden impulse, she put her glass of juice down on the table with an audible clunk.

"Madam Hooch," she said, "will you do me the honour of this dance?"

Hooch nearly choked on her mouthful of punch. Once she'd recovered her composure, she turned to Hermione and assessed her through narrowed eyes.

"Indeed, Miss Granger, I will," she replied. With a flick of her fingers, she sent her cup floating back to the table.

Moments later, Hermione found herself being expertly lead around the dance floor. Hooch, she discovered, was an excellent dancer, and also far more muscular than Hermione had expected. It was a little odd dancing with a woman, mainly because Hooch was only barely taller than she was, and their faces were very close together.

"You, Granger, are not a lesbian."

It was a statement, issued in a very conversational tone, but it seemed to require an answer.

"No."

"Where's your young man?"

"He's having a boys' night."

"I see."

They took a few turns in silence.

Before things became unbearably awkward, Hooch asked Hermione a question about her progress with the Arithmancy calculations, and within a few minutes they were conversing comfortably. Hermione even unbent to the point of asking a Quidditch-related question. Somewhere in the middle of Hooch's reply, Hermione caught sight of Professor Snape. Her heart twisted uncomfortably in her chest, and for several moments, blood beat loudly in her ears. She might have hopeful new ideas about his concern for her, but his scowling visage and the pain of his long rejection left her feeling dizzy. She forced herself to concentrate on her footwork and to look elsewhere.

There was an awkward silence when Hooch stopped speaking, and Hermione realised a beat too late that Hooch had asked a question.

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" Hermione flushed at her rudeness.

"I asked how things were going between you and Snape."

Hermione stared into Hooch's golden eyes in some confusion. She couldn't understand how Hooch had segued from Quidditch to Snape while she wasn't paying attention.

"I, um, he's not talking to me."

Twice in the last week she'd tried dropping by his office, but he never seemed to be there. Either that or he knew it was her and hadn't wanted to open his door.

Just then, Hermione heard a burst of laughter from the Gryffindor boys' table; it felt like it was directed specifically at her. She had a terrible urge to pull herself from Hooch's grip, to run from the Great Hall. She wanted to bury herself under her covers, with the bed curtains tightly closed, a Silencing Charm in place, and cry herself to sleep.

"I wouldn't worry too much," said Hooch gently. "He does that to me, too, sometimes."

Hermione turned her face from Hooch's and struggled to regain her composure. Within moments, the song came to an end, and Hooch spun Hermione out and off the dance floor with an unexpected flourish, right into Snape's path.

"Snape! Perfect timing! You can partner Miss Granger for the next dance."

Hermione's insides turned to ice and, though she opened her mouth, she found herself incapable of saying anything. Snape looked furious.

"I hardly think that would be appropriate."

His voice was viciously neutral. Hermione felt like she might be ill and she realised that, against all the odds, she'd experienced a sublime moment of hope.

"Don't be such a boor, Severus." Hooch looked unconcerned by Snape's rudeness. "Oh, well, I guess if you won't, Krum will. Oy!" Her last cry was directed out to the Transfiguration professor, who still sat at the high table, only ten yards away.

A sharp hissing sound escaped Snape. "Do you have no concern for decorum?" he demanded, his voice low and cutting.

Hooch was waving Viktor over.

For a second, Snape loomed, then he quite literally snatched Hermione's hand from where it sat in Hooch's grip, and dragged her out onto the dance floor. The stance he took was rigid. He held Hermione firmly at arms length, and scowled over her head. His fingers dug into her hip and her hand, pushing her away even as they circumscribed her movements.

As fate would have it, the band took up a slow, leisurely number. All around them, couples moved closer. The singer began to croon about love.

Snape kept them dancing at a painful distance. Hermione fought the prickle of tears. She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't. Not here. She stared at the buttons on his teaching robes—unlike the other teachers, he hadn't bothered to dress up. Snape steered them into a clumsy turn, and Hermione saw Ginny spinning slowly in Draco's arms, saw her head jerk up in surprise as Hermione and Snape danced past.

In Hermione's daydreams of dancing with Snape, it had never been like this. It had been graceful. Their bodies had been pressed together. Her face had been flush up against his chest. Hermione took a deep breath, fighting for calm.

She _would_ regain her equilibrium. She concentrated, not on the points where Snape's fingers were bruising her, and not on his furious expression or the way his eyes stared over her head, but on the scents she could identify: bergamot and aconite.

She blinked.

She breathed in again. Bergamot and aconite. Only one potion combined those two ingredients. Emboldened by her curiosity, Hermione leant forwards and took an undisguised sniff of the front of Snape's robes.

"What in Salazar's snake pit do you think you're doing?"

Hermione smiled, delighted with herself despite his thoroughly outraged expression. "You've been brewing Wolfsbane," she said.

Her unorthodox behaviour had brought his eyes squarely to her face.

"You'll have to forgive me if I do not fall into raptures at your powers of observation."

Hermione didn't care that he was being sarcastic, at this point, she felt triumphant to be engaged in any sort of conversation. She creased her brow in thought.

"But it's nowhere near the full moon. Have you lengthened the shelf life?"

Snape's eyes rose to the space above her head once again, and the muscles around his mouth tightened.

"No," he said.

There was a long pause. Hermione wracked her brain to think of something else to say; she didn't want this conversation to be over.

Unexpectedly, it was Snape who broke the silence. "I have been . . . experimenting with the potion, but without success. Today was the last batch. I don't intend to waste any more time."

"You were trying to improve it?" _Please keep talking, please keep talking._

Again, there was a pause before Snape replied; he spoke stiffly, as if he were reluctant to participate. "Yes. I had hoped to devise a variant that would last, perhaps indefinitely."

"The aconite and the jeridian can't be stabilised?"

"Not to my knowledge."

"They both need the long brewing time to activate, the aconite won't catalyse without the jeridian," Hermione knew she was babbling, but she couldn't let the conversation drop, "but once activated, the aconite degrades quickly—"

"I know, Granger."

His tone was harsh, but he'd used her surname. And Hermione's heart sang in response. Her mind was racing. She sucked her lower lip into her mouth for a second, on the verge of an idea.

"I suppose you've tried separating the potion into two inert halves that could be—"

Hermione broke off mid-sentence because, as she stepped forward into the dance, she crashed directly into Snape's chest. He had stopped dead in the middle of the floor. The impact caused Hermione to lose her footing, and had he not caught her—his arm closing tightly around her waist—she would have fallen.

"You'd have to re-adjust the acidity levels," he said.

"A fairly simple Arithmantic equation—"

"And add something to the jeridian potion that would initiate the oxidation process."

"Something that wouldn't inhibit the aconite later on."

The other dancers were having to negotiate their way around them. Hermione took a moment to brush her cheek softly against the scratchy wool of his robe.

"Yes. Amber is a possibility." Snape's arm tightened convulsively around Hermione as he seemed to realise where they were. "Dance, Granger," he commanded, steering her unexpectedly back into the flow of bodies.

This time, however, their movements were graceful. Their bodies were pressed together. Her face was flush against his chest.

"I suppose," he said, as they span into a turn at the far end of the room, "you've already done rather a lot of work on Wartcap mushrooms."

Hermione wasn't sure where this was going. "Yes."

"What a waste of time," he said. "I suggest you throw it into the fire."

When the song ended, Snape stepped away. He made Hermione a formal bow, and she, rather clumsily, sketched a curtsey. Her heart was in her mouth. Were they back on speaking terms? Were they . . . friends?

"Granger," he said, "From here onwards, you will be working on a different Potions' assignment: it seems that your expertise might prove essential to my research into Wolfsbane."

"Sir?"

"I suggest, that if you have time in your schedule, we might recommence our weekly meetings."

"I could . . . manage that," replied Hermione.

With that, he turned and left the Great Hall altogether, his robes billowing behind him as he carved a path between students.

Hermione had the strongest urge to jump up and down, and though she restrained herself from that activity, nothing could suppress a huge grin. She took a moment to cast her eye over the mass of students and staff in front of her: the dancing, the small talk, the cups of punch. She saw the Gryffindor boys, laughing uproariously at their table; she saw Hooch and Viktor—between them they'd conjured an entire squad of sparkling Quidditch miniatures that soared in demonstration of some complicated team manoeuvre; she saw Flitwick dancing with Kaleisha Shacklebolt, his tiny steps carving a graceful arabesque around the smooth turns of her wheelchair; she saw Ginny and Draco, still dancing; and Luna twirling happily by herself in the middle of the floor. Hermione's heart felt huge, as if she could encompass each and every inhabitant of Hogwarts.

The scene around her was a happy one, simultaneously echoing inside her, and yet oddly distant.

She didn't want to dance anymore, she realised. She didn't want anything to dull the buzz she felt right then. Not when she could hide herself away behind the curtains of her bed, read up on the Wolfsbane potion, and relive the experience of spinning around the dance floor with her face against Snape's chest.

Still grinning, Hermione left the Great Hall.

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><p>AN: Well, BAM! I'd like to say you're welcome, but, well, you haven't thanked me yet! :) Feel free to send me a little review and tell me how you feel . . .

xo g.


	17. Chapter 16: Let Nothing You Dismay

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 16: Let Nothing You Dismay

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: I was wary of dedicating more than one chapter to the same reviewer (though now that I think about it, I wonder why that is so?) but THEN, Steggie went and WROTE A MISSING SCENE from my story in her review. Godric Gryffindor's gingham garterbelt! (My loyal readers will realise just how hilarious it is to write a missing scene for a story that is, in effect, a long series of missing scenes!). I don't know if the link will post correctly, but you can read the review here (or just look on the review page for what the site calls ch.16). It's awesome! r/7600629/ So, how, my friends, could I do otherwise than to dedicate this chapter to her/him?

Also, Biggerthanthis, I wasn't able to post by Friday, but I hope this helps to console you for your week regardless!

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><p>Severus rang the doorbell. He heard her voice before he saw her.<p>

"I'll get it!"

His heart lurched. Literally lurched. It was as if his vital organ grew tired of beating in the one place and leapt instead a foot to the left. All of a sudden, he was assailed with doubts. _What the hell am I doing here?_ The sight of her, her surprised expression and her bulky knitted jumper—unquestionably a Christmas offering from Molly Weasley—offered no reassurance.

"Pr-professor Snape!"

The other two invitations in his pocket weighed on him. He should have gone elsewhere.

"Happy Christmas, Granger."

She clearly hadn't known he was coming and, from the look on her face, she assumed him to be the bearer of bad tidings. Instead of inviting him in, she had stepped forward, pulling the door shut behind her as if she could keep whatever horrors he brought with him out of the house.

"What happened? Is Harry—"

"Who is it, darling?" Susan Granger's voice carried from within, cutting across Hermione's sotto voce interrogation.

"No-one!" Hermione called back over her shoulder. "It's nothing!"

Long practiced self-defence mechanisms kicked in. "I see that I've gone up in your esteem," he said.

Granger stared at him, confused.

How could he have let one dance and one fucking brilliant idea bring him to this point? He'd spent painful months enforcing an appropriate distance between teacher and student, only to turn up for a Christmas lunch described in her mother's letter as "a quiet, family affair." What had he expected? That they might sit around drinking the Firewhisky he had bought? That under her parents' roof, Hermione Granger wouldn't be his student? His responsibility? That he wouldn't be the world's biggest fool?

If only he had sent his refusal before the Yule Ball. Then he wouldn't have scrawled his acceptance in the heady aftermath of their dance, his mind and body full of the smell of her, the feel of her hand in his, her skin soft against his fingertips.

A sudden memory of Melbourne sprang up before his mind's eye, of an evening spent in the living room. Him, Granger, her parents; a bottle of Firewhisky. And Granger's expression as she sat across the room from him, cross legged on the floor, her head against her father's knee and that ridiculous dog on her lap. She'd smiled at him. But sweet Merlin, what a smile.

He was an idiot.

She opened her mouth to speak, but was saved by Susan's entry on the scene.

"Severus!" Susan stood in the doorway. The riotously floral apron she wore made an odd juxtaposition with the severe pants suit she had on underneath. "I'm so pleased you could make it! Good grief, Hermione," she added. "Don't leave him standing out on the doorstep."

An extraordinarily awkward few moments followed, in which Severus was ushered inside, passing close by Granger as he did so, only to be subjected to an embrace from both Susan Granger and her apron the moment he crossed the threshold.

"Terry!" she called out. "Severus is here!"

Terry emerged from the kitchen to shake Severus' hand vigorously, and before the greetings were finished, someone else had knocked on the door. It was something of a relief to cede the full attention of the doctors Granger.

Two women and a young boy entered, bringing with them an arctic blast of air from outside and a flurry of noise and activity. Loud exclamations were exchanged over how much everyone had grown, or hadn't changed, and the visible pregnancy of the darker-haired woman was greeted with delight. Severus took the opportunity to steal a long look at Granger.

He shouldn't have come.

"Professor Snape, this is my cousin, Liza, her partner, Carla, and their son, Thom. Liza, this is Professor Snape—"

"Severus," he said firmly, as he took Liza's hand and shook it.

"Pleased to meet you. Thom, come and meet the professor—be careful with your stick!"

"It's not a stick! It's a wand!" Thom couldn't have been much older than three, and he waved his rather branch-like "wand" enthusiastically. "I'm a wizard!" he announced to the room at large.

Liza began to apologise for her son in the half-hearted way of parents who find their child equal parts endearing and exasperating. Severus took the opportunity to squat down so that he was closer to eye level with Thom, more than a little relieved to duck out from the adult small talk, from the need to be polite to Granger's relatives, and from the odd, unreadable glances Granger was sending his way.

"I'm a wizard," repeated Thom, regarding Severus with a very serious expression.

"So am I," he said.

"Snape." Severus heard the warning in Granger's voice, and a single glance at her face was enough to know that her extended family were not up on the finer points of her schooling.

"Where's your wand?" demanded Thom.

"I keep it up my sleeve to keep it safe." Severus patted the inside of his wrist with his left hand.

Thom nodded his understanding. "Can you do magic?" he asked.

"Of course." Severus waved his hand in an exaggerated flourish, designed to imply to he was pulling something out of his sleeve rather than literally conjuring something from nothing.

"_Floribus_," he said and produced a delicate winter rose.

Thom's astonishment was comical. His eyes were round as saucers and his mouth formed a silent "o." His mothers applauded delightedly, Terry and Susan laughed with the appreciation of those who knew themselves to be in on the joke. Granger laughed almost in spite of herself.

"Again!" demanded Thom, once he regained the power of speech.

"Alright, but this is the last time. _Floribus_."

A second rose appeared, and Severus presented the pair of flowers to Thom's parents.

"Maybe one day Severus will show you how to do that trick, Thom," remarked Carla. "It's a good one!"

"I wanna do it now," said Thom. He had a very intent look on his face, and he waved his garden-variety wand in an awkward, overdrawn imitation of Severus' more graceful flourish. "_Flowibus_," he exclaimed.

Severus felt the tingle of magic before he saw the results. There was a muffled crack, a slight puff of smoke, and Thom was left holding a bright orange gerbera: as close to a child's drawing of a flower as botanically possible.

Several people spoke at once. Susan had both Carla and Liza by the arm and was repeating, "It's okay, it's okay, Hermione can do it too, it's okay," in a voice she evidently hoped was reassuring, though the result sounded rather closer to mild panic.

"What? How did—Thom?" Carla was visibly panicked, and Hermione, for her part, looked unexpectedly stricken.

Severus turned his eyes back to Thom, noting how confusion and uncertainty had frayed the boy's initial delight.

"Congratulations, Thom," he said. "You are a wizard!"

Hermione burst into tears. Within moments, her father had her in his arms.

"I've got you, it's okay," Terry murmured.

Severus felt out of his depth. "In most circles," he commented to the room at large, "such a discovery would be cause for celebration."

Hermione seemed to sob more heavily still, but Susan Granger pulled herself together.

"You're right, Severus," said Susan. "We have much to celebrate. After all, it's Christmas, and look at us, none of us are dead."

"I can't say that's the most reassuring call to celebration I have ever heard," remarked Liza dryly. She shot Severus a piercing look. "I think that an explanation is in order."

"Over food," said Susan firmly, and she took charge of bustling everybody into the dining room.

It wasn't long before the extended Granger family plus Severus were seated around the table, with a traditional Christmas dinner spread before them, and glasses of red wine for each of the adults. Hermione took her seat with dry eyes though her face was reddened and slightly puffy.

Severus had visited the homes of eleven-year-old Muggle-borns often enough to provide a polished explanation of the magical world, the schooling system at Hogwarts and to answer the various questions that Liza, Carla and Thom posed. His experience with such families also had prepared him to deal with reactions that were not exclusively positive, including Carla's fixedly startled expression. He found, too, that he had a lot of respect for the nuances of opinion held by the Grangers senior: they had lived through VWII as Muggle parents, having to stand by while their only child threw herself into battle, they'd agreed to have their memories modified, and then moved to the other side of the world. Still, he found Hermione's silence and her tearstained face unnerving.

He had thought that he knew her well enough to accurately predict her reactions in most circumstances. He had thought that she would have responded with delight. Hermione Granger, saviour of the Wizarding World, should have leapt at the chance to initiate others into its curious ways, and to have another wizard in the family.

Perhaps he didn't know her very well at all.

Liza hadn't inherited the frizzy hair that Susan had bequeathed to her only child, but she did have the same way of narrowing her eyes slightly and staring intently as she processed information. She, too, was bothered by Hermione's reticence.

"So, Hermione,"—Granger looked up immediately—"I couldn't help noticing that you weren't exactly thrilled about Thom's discovery." There was something very gentle about Liza's use of understatement.

Granger put down her fork, straightening both her back and her utensils before she answered.

"I don't want anyone to misunderstand me," she said, choosing her words with visible care. "I love being a witch. I wouldn't change anything about who I am, or my life, or my friends. But it's not always easy as a Muggle-born, sometimes it's really hard. There are always things that you won't know, things that seem foreign. But what really upset me was the realisation of how isolated I have felt from my Muggle world. From you." Granger gestured around the table at Liza, Carla and Thom. "We were so close when I was little, and then, from the day I turned eleven, I kept from you the most important part of who I am."

Carla laughed and reached over to take Hermione's hand. "You don't need to explain to us what coming out of the closet feels like, sweet child. There's a part of me that's tempted to sulk about the fact that you didn't tell us, but given that it might have meant we had to abandon our lives and move to Australia, I'm rather relieved that you didn't!"

"And Thom will have you, don't forget," added Susan to Hermione, "on both sides of the Diagon Alley wall, explaining things and normalising them."

Hermione nodded. "Yeah," she said. She looked over at Thom, who was happily consuming roast potatoes at a rather alarming rate, his "wand" clutched firmly in his other hand. She smiled thoughtfully and then glanced up at Severus, meeting his eyes.

Her smile deepened, and then she shrugged, glancing away as if to make light of her own emotions. Severus' stomach twisted. For the first time, he felt glad that he'd come.

"It's funny, actually,"—Liza was speaking and Severus tried to turn his attention away from Granger and to pay attention—"Thom only became fascinated with magic because of a book that I've been reading for my research about music and renaissance magic. I confess that I wasn't taking it very seriously, but I'm going to have to re-read it in a completely different light."

"On music and magic?" Granger sounded genuinely curious. "A Muggle book?"

"Yes, a musicology book by an American scholar called Gary Tomlinson. He basically argues that sixteenth- and seventeenth-century listeners believed that music could have magical effects on people and objects through the resemblance of musical figures to reality, and that in order to understand what the music meant, modern day listeners need to take these crazy-sounding ideas seriously."

"But it could well be true!" replied Granger. "The International Statute of Wizarding Secrecy wasn't signed until 1689, and even then it wasn't established officially until 1692. In the sixteenth century . . ."

Fuelled by a flight of statistical quotation Granger sounded much more like her usual self, and Severus felt one of the knots of worry in his gut loosen. He sat back in his chair and took a generous mouthful of wine. Terry caught his eye and raised his own glass in a friendly gesture; Severus returned the salute.

He was here, he told himself, so he might as well enjoy lunch.

After Christmas pudding with brandy butter, custard and ice-cream, they all retired to the living room couches and exchanged presents. Severus gave the Grangers senior a bottle of Firewhisky and got an expensive bottle of Scotch in return. Taking advantage of Thom's delight at a large wooden train set, and the subsequent distraction of most of the adults, he walked over to Hermione's chair and passed her a slim volume bound in pale card.

She looked down at it and blinked.

"I didn't get you anything," she said, looking up at him with surprised, round eyes. "I didn't know you were coming."

"You haven't opened it yet, Granger. Once you do, you might not feel so obliged to reciprocate."

Granger looked down at the parcel in her lap and took a deep breath. She gently ran one finger down the edges of the pages, and then slowly, almost hesitantly, undid the white cotton archival cord with which he'd tied a rough bow.

"It's your Wolfsbane notes." Granger's voice was neutral.

"Yes." Severus waited a second, but she said nothing further. "I will, of course," he went on, mustering a good rendition of teacherly irritation to fill a silence that suddenly felt unbearable, "expect you to read them—"

"Will there be a test?" interrupted Granger. She glanced up at him with an irreverent grin.

"Should it prove necessary."

Granger hugged his notes to her chest. "It's the best present ever," she declared unexpectedly.

Severus raised one eyebrow, unable to conceal the smile that curled up one side of his face. "I'm sure you won't think so once you begin reading."

"I wish that I had something to offer in return," said Granger, her face serious once again.

"Believe me when I say that your rather . . . inspired idea was easily the best Christmas present I have received, possibly ever."

Severus was perhaps as surprised as Granger herself to hear such unguarded words fall from his lips. She blinked at him a few times, and a long, slow smile spread across her face. He found himself looking down into the smile he'd remembered on the doorstep: genuinely happy, open, uncomplicated.

At that precise moment, the doorbell rang, cutting across Hermione's smile and the happy babble of the rest of the room.

"Whomever could that be?" asked Terry, breaking the surprised silence that followed.

"Mum?" asked Granger, a wary edge to her voice. "You're not expecting anyone else, are you?"

Susan shook her head. "Carollers, perhaps?"

"I'll get it," said Granger, pushing up from her chair.

"No," said Severus. "I'll get it." He shook his wand down from his sleeve into his hand and stepped away from the living room and out into the hall.

In the background he heard Thom's voice: "See, mamma? He has a wand just like me."

Granger followed him. "Maybe it's someone who's got the wrong house."

Before opening the house to a possible danger, Severus cast a one-way transparency charm on the front door. There on the front steps, stood Ronald Weasley bearing an enormous, if rather crushed, bunch of flowers.

Severus let out a long breath through his nose before cancelling the charm and opening the door.

"Blimey, Snape! What are you doing here?"

Severus raised one eyebrow. "I could ask you the same thing, my presence at least was anticipated by the host and hostess." He eyed Weasley from the top of his head to his scuffed trainers, pausing on the flowers for a significant moment in which the curl of his lip deepened. "What evidence do you have to prove that you are indeed Ronald Weasley and not a Polyjuiced impostor?"

Weasley blinked and straightened his back. He regarded the doorframe for a few seconds before answering. "Well, er, I know I failed the Potions exam that you gave at the start of the semester, but I do think I did quite well on the question about edible mushrooms and their use in healing salves."

"An adequate response." Severus stepped aside and let Weasley come into the house.

_This boy is not your rival_, he told himself firmly, _because Granger is your student. You need to get a grip._

"Hello, Ron."

"Hi." Weasley shuffled a half step closer to Granger, but he didn't close the distance between them.

"I wasn't expecting to see you today." Granger tilted her head slightly to one side.

"No." Ron shot a fleeting glance in Severus' direction and took a deep breath. "Look, I know we're supposed to see each other tomorrow at lunch, I just wanted to see you before then and tell you—"

He broke off as first Susan, and then the other Grangers, stuck their heads out into the entrance hall.

"Why, hello, Ron!"

"Hi Dr Granger, and Dr Granger." Ron nodded his head politely, a deepening look of panic on his face.

"What was it you wanted to tell me, Ron?" asked Hermione.

"I, er . . . look, I brought you these." He thrust the large bouquet at her. "I just wanted to apologise, for being such a prat at the Yule Ball. I should've, I dunno, been there for you—"

"That's okay," said Hermione, interrupting his muddled explanation. Her shoulders lowered almost inch as she relaxed her body language, and she took the flowers from Weasley and raised them to her nose. "The other boys were kind of being prats, too."

"You're welcome to stay, Ronald," offered Susan. "There's plenty of pudding left."

"Really?" Weasley brightened at the mention of food.

"This seems like an opportune moment to take my leave," interpolated Severus smoothly. "I have another engagement and I really should be going."

He pushed away the jealousy that Weasley's arrival had triggered and tried to concentrate on the remembered warmth of Hermione's smile. He wasn't entirely successful.

There were several protestations at his sudden departure, but Severus stayed adamant. The goodbyes themselves took almost no time.

"Thank you for coming," said Granger, holding her hand out rather stiffly and shaking his in a businesslike manner. "I look forward to the reading."

For his part, the idiot boy laughed. "It wouldn't be Christmas without reading, would it Hermione?"

Severus turned and left. There wasn't much else he could do.

* * *

><p>A sense of duty sent him to his next engagement. That and the knowledge that the wine would be superb. Even though the Apparation foyer was open for business once again, Severus chose the front gates as his destination, transfiguring his Muggle attire back to robes the moment he arrived. He wanted the long walk up Malfoy drive to clear his head.<p>

The gathering was much smaller than the many others he'd been to over the years: just Lucius, Narcissa, Draco, and Jocelyn sat bunched at one end of their impossibly long dining table. Severus wondered why Lucius hadn't shrunk the table to make the evening more convivial.

"Severus!" Narcissa fairly leapt from her chair as Severus was shown into the room. She closed the distance between them quickly, grasping both his hands with her own. "I'm so delighted to see you."

She sounded more sincere than usual.

Draco and Lucius rose to their feet to greet him, but Jocelyn stayed where she was, glancing up at him through short, blond lashes, a scowl on her face.

What followed was forty-five minutes of near-excruciating banality. Narcissa maintained a steady stream of social small talk, to which Draco contributed with exclamations and appropriate noises of encouragement. Severus said little, Jocelyn said nothing, and Lucius was all sharp edges and barely-restrained fury.

The food, however, was delicious. The house elves provided Severus with tiny morsels of each dish in deference to the fact he had already eaten. And they kept his wine glass full.

In such circumstances, an explosion was inevitable. At a certain point, Narcissa turned the conversation to Lucius' community service.

"He's been working with a really lovely young lady—no doubt you know her from Hogwarts, Severus—Holly Rattington? A Hufflepuff, but still—"

"Have you fucked her, yet?" Jocelyn's outburst cut across Narcissa like the Hogwarts Express. Her fork was gripped tightly in one hand and she was pointing it, accusingly, at her father.

"That is quite enough!" snapped Lucius, holding his own knife rather tightly, the tip pointed back across the table as if it were his wand.

"Jocelyn Claire Malfoy!" gasped Narcissa, one hand pressed against her chest. "Under no circumstances are you to speak to your father in such a tone!"

"Oh, please!" sneered Jocelyn, swinging her attention from Lucius to Narcissa. "Why do you put up with it? Do you think that my mother is the only other woman he's ever slept with apart from you? I guarantee, she's not such a catch. If he fucked her, I bet he's fucked hundreds of people!"

"Language, young lady!" snapped Lucius.

Narcissa's back was rigid. "The terms of my relationship with your father are none of your business."

"Go to your room." Lucius spat the words out.

"No." Jocelyn pushed her plate away from her defiantly.

"Go to your room, now, or you won't have a choice in the matter." Lucius had drawn his wand.

"Is that what you said to my mother, too?" Jocelyn was verging on hysterical. "A nice, easy Imperius? Or was it something simpler? After all, a Muggle—"

"_Silencio!_ I'll have you know, young lady, that a Malfoy never, _never_ resorts to force in the bedroom! Now, get out!"

Jocelyn's face was contorted in silent rage, and she pushed her chair back from the table so hard that it fell backwards. She stormed from the room, pausing by the door to kick over a spindly side table, and slammed the door behind her.

Her departure was followed by an awkward silence.

Severus put down his glass and dabbed the corners of his mouth with an embroidered linen napkin.

"I should go," he announced to the room in general.

Narcissa made some half-hearted protests, but nobody stopped him. Moments later, he was standing in the hallway, consciously relieved to have left the oppressive atmosphere of the dining room behind.

Jocelyn, however, was nowhere to be seen, and Severus felt unexpectedly wrong footed. He had no idea where, in the vast hallways of Malfoy Manor, her room might be found, and no desire to call a house elf to show him the way. He intruded almost half way up the main staircase—with every nerve on high alert, very unwilling to be caught trespassing by an infuriated Lucius—before he turned on his heel and walked decisively back to the exit.

Outside, the cold, December air hit him like a wall. He felt betrayed by Jocelyn's disappearance and terribly guilty. As if it were he who had betrayed her.

When Fawkes swooped down and landed on his shoulder, he let out a breath—half resignation, half relief.

"Let's go home, Fawkes," he said, reaching up across his body to run one hand down the back of the bird's head.

Fawkes clucked in agreement, and with a flash, they were gone.

They re-materialised in the hallway outside Hooch and Poppy's rooms. Severus balked.

"No," he said. He couldn't bear another social encounter. He couldn't deal with yet another execrable exchange of pleasantries. "No," he said again.

Fawkes squawked. He dug his beak in behind Severus's ear and gave him a less-than-subtle nudge towards the door. When Severus twisted his head aside and moved to turn away completely, Fawkes took the cartilage of Severus' ear in his beak and squeezed threateningly. Severus froze.

"I can't," he said, hating the tremor in his voice.

Fawkes tightened his grip.

"Fine. Five minutes."

Fawkes let go, clucking happily.

Girding his loins, Severus reached out to knock on the door. It swung open at the touch, letting the light and laughter from within spill out to where he stood. The room was packed with his colleagues, a bevy of Quidditch players, and most of the members of Wizarding England's lesbian sub-culture. He sucked in a breath, and were it not for the sharp press of Fawkes' beak against the sensitive tissue of his ear, might have fled. Instead, he swept into the room, his robes billowing behind him.

In self defence, he headed for the drinks table where, to his relief, he found Hooch.

_Four minutes_.

Hooch was laughing at something her companions had said, but she broke off when she caught sight of Severus.

"About bloody time—" Abruptly, she stopped, her eyebrows furrowed in surprise. "Hang on," she said and reached out to grab a handful of his robes. With her free hand, she snatched up a half-full bottle of Firewhisky. "Let's go," she said to him, and then called back over her shoulder, "Back soon! Have another drink!"

_Three minutes_.

Severus had yet to say anything. Hooch was shepherding him expertly towards the door, carving them a path with the heft of her shoulder and cheerful comments to all they passed. At the door, she kept going, manoeuvring him outside and then dragging him off down the corridor.

"Where are we going?" he asked, when she set off up the third floor stairs, still pulling him along behind.

"Out."

Out seemed to mean up, and it didn't take long for Severus to realise that they were headed for the Astronomy tower.

"Hooch," he said, heavy with reluctance.

"Demons are there to be faced, Snape." Hooch didn't break her stride. "Besides, you did the old queen a favour. You did all of us a favour."

Neither of them said anything more until they emerged out into the biting cold air of the tower top. Balancing the bottle on the parapet, Hooch cast a sophisticated cushioning charm on a patch of bricks and gave him a gentle shove.

"Sit," she said, letting go of his robes for the first time since she'd laid eyes on him.

Severus, succumbing to the inevitable, sat. The bricks were not only soft, but warm, and he settled his shoulder blades back against the wall with something approaching a sigh. Hooch took a seat beside him and proceeded to take a generous swallow directly from the bottle she'd carried upstairs.

"I like it up here," she announced. "It's kind of like flying."

Severus said nothing, but when she passed him the bottle he took a drink.

"So," said Hooch after a few minutes, "are you going to tell me what's wrong?"

"Why would anything be wrong?" He answered on autopilot.

"Uh huh." Hooch didn't bother to contradict him.

Fawkes squirmed against Severus' neck, trying to worm his way inside his collar without success.

"I came from Malfoy Manor. Jocelyn accused her father of raping her mother over the cheese course and was sent away from the table."

"Have I told you that I like her?" Hooch reached over and reclaimed the Firewhisky.

"Once or twice." Severus let his head drop forward just enough that his hair swung past his eyes.

"You're her guardian, you know. Why don't you just take her away?"

"I took her away from one parent already," replied Severus. His voice came out unexpectedly harsh. "It didn't work out so well."

"Hm." Hooch held out the bottle. "Have another drink."

"What are you doing up here?" he asked, once the warmth of the whisky had slid into his stomach.

"Talking to you, you fool."

"You should go back to the party."

Hooch gave him a long, sympathetic look. It left him unsettled. "That party is doing just fine without me." She leant over slightly and nudged his shoulder with hers. "Give us another go of the bottle." Hooch took a long mouthful and then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. "What else is wrong?"

Severus thought very hard about lying. Instead, he said nothing.

"Come on, Severus." Hooch didn't use his first name very often, it wasn't her style. "These last few days, you've seemed . . . happy. Happier than I've seen you in a long time." She gestured dismissively at the inadequacy of the description. "And then tonight—well, tonight you turn up looking like eleven-year-old versions of Tom Riddle and Neville Longbottom were just matched up as lab partners in your Potions classroom, ready to make your life a living hell."

_Happy._

"I had lunch at the Grangers," he said without really meaning to say it aloud. "Her parents invited me," he added. If that just made him sound more guilty, Hooch didn't indicate that she'd noticed.

"Was that boyfriend of hers there?"

"He turned up at the end."

"Uh huh. Drink?"

Severus took the bottle. He felt his fingers close around the smooth glass of the neck.

"She took my fucked up, filthy, mess of a life, Hooch, and she cleaned it up. She restored my reputation, and then she handed it right back. New, shiny. And empty as fuck."

The Firewhisky sloshed around the bottle as he shook it in frustration, setting sparks flying. The amber glow pooled over him and Hooch, and cast their shadows up against the stones behind their heads.

He'd said too much. The revelation left him nauseous and breathless.

"You know, Snape," Hooch reached over and took the bottle from his unresisting fingers, "If you gave her a chance, I bet she'd be willing to help you fill that hole."

Hooch tipped back her head and drank.

"She's a student," he ground out.

Hooch graced him with a long look. "There's no rule against being friends with students, Snape."

_Had she leant extra weight to the word "friends"?_

Hooch was still looking at him, but he couldn't meet her eyes. He couldn't tell if she was warning him, or absolving him.

"She saved your life," Hooch said, speaking slowly. "She fought a war. From what I understand from Vector, Granger did some bloody difficult piece of mathematics that pretty much turned the whole fucking mess in our favour. Under normal circumstances, she'd have graduated a year ago."

Finally, she turned her head away, looking out and up at the crisp spread of stars above them.

"Look," she added, "I'm not suggesting you do something inappropriate, just that you stop pushing her away. You need to think seriously about whether, a year from now, you want Granger to be a part of your life, or not."

* * *

><p>AN: So? Will he take Hooch's advice, or not? What will happen between Ron and Hermione? Will she accept his apology? Tune in next week, to find out!


	18. Chapter 17: When We Were Gone Astray

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 17: When We Were Gone Astray

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

Hey there, peeps! I missed you! This chapter is for HeartMom88—who noticed that Gary Tomlinson is a REAL author, and his book, "Music in Renaissance Magic: Toward a Historiography of Others," is a REAL book. Did you google that HM88, or what?! The simple fact is, that this story fits together with the original story so well, and with the real world so well, for a quite obvious reason: it's true. Yep. Hermione told me the whole story herself! I just write it down and post it here so that you all can enjoy the story, too. So, on that note, here it is: Hermione's account of what happened after Snape left.

Hold tight to your broomsticks, you're in for a ride!

* * *

><p>"You're welcome to stay, Ronald," said Susan. "There's plenty of pudding left."<p>

"Really?" Ron perked up at the mention of pudding, like a friendly, oversized puppy.

Hermione looked down at her bunch of flowers and wished that Ron hadn't come. Or at least that he hadn't come at precisely that moment. She and Snape had been having a truly wonderful conversation.

"This seems like an opportune moment to take my leave," noted Snape. "I have another engagement and I really should be going."

Hermione's disappointment threatened to swamp her entirely. Snape made his farewells rapidly, and Hermione found herself, only seconds later, face-to-face with her favourite professor.

"Thank you for coming," she said, holding out her hand. He shook it dispassionately, his face blank. Hermione quashed an urge to grip hold of him forcefully and shake him. She fought to keep her voice neutral. "I look forward to the reading," she added.

Ron laughed, and slung an arm around her shoulders. "It wouldn't be Christmas without reading, would it Hermione?" He gave her a quick squeeze.

Was Snape leaving because Ron had arrived? Or was it just co-incidence?

Either way, he was gone.

Hermione forced a polite imitation of a smile onto her face and let Ron turn her towards the kitchen. There Susan gave him an enormous bowl full of pudding that he practically drowned with custard.

For about ten minutes, Hermione fantasised about throwing a teenagerish tantrum: she could scream her head off, take out all of her disappointment and frustration at Ron and insist that he leave. But Hermione had little desire to spoil Christmas for her parents. She knew full well that she'd feel just as furious and frustrated afterwards as she already did, enhanced by a large dose of guilt. Plus Ron was doing his level best to be charming: he chatted with Carla and played with Thom for ages. He even entertained everybody by cleaning all of the dishes with magic.

It was several hours before Liza, Carla and Thom left, at which point, Ron was still there.

"Goodnight, sweetheart," said Susan, pressing a kiss to Hermione's forehead.

"Should we expect you for breakfast?" asked Terry, directing the question at Ron.

"Er . . ." Ron sat up straighter on the couch and slid his eyes sideways towards Hermione.

"Maybe," she answered for him.

Susan laughed. "Sounds like you're not quite out of the doghouse, yet, young man!" She leant down and kissed Ron's cheek. "It was lovely to see you."

As they left the room, Susan and Terry were hand in hand. Hermione heard her mother laugh again from the hallway; it made her feel sad.

"Your parents are brilliant," said Ron.

"Yes." Hermione still felt furious at him, and she knew it wasn't really fair. She was mad because Snape had left, not because of Ron. She took a deep breath and tried to imagine how she would feel if Snape had never been there in the first place, how she might have responded to Ron's apology had he arrived to find her alone with her family.

"Hermione." Ron reached over and took hold of her near hand with both of his. "I'm sorry, really I am. I know you're still mad at me. Just tell me what you want me to do to make it up to you, and I'll do it."

Hermione let out a guilty breath. _In the morning—surely—everything will look better_.

"Let's just go upstairs and get some sleep."

"Really?" Ron looked at her quizzically. He knew her well enough to know that she wasn't telling him the whole truth. When he wanted to be, he could be almost disturbingly perceptive.

"Yeah." Hermione got to her feet and tugged on his hand. "Come on, let's go to bed."

Ron let her pull him up, and followed her out into the hall. They walked up the stairs and into Hermione's room. He'd never been there before. The realisation struck Hermione as ridiculous.

Just inside the door, he stopped. "I think we should sleep together."

"It's that or sleep on the couch," she replied, headed towards the chest of drawers.

"No," he said. "I mean, I think we should, you know, sleep together."

Hermione stilled, her hand on the smooth wooden handle of her dresser. Slowly, she turned her head towards Ron. He stood stiffly, both hands clenched by his sides. His face was flushed.

"Are you sure?" she asked. She wasn't certain how to respond. Was this intended as a peace offering?

He shrugged. His eyes were wide, signalling the anxiety he was trying to conceal beneath bravado. "We might as well, right? Everyone thinks we have already: your parents, my parents . . . Harry."

It wasn't the most romantic proposal Hermione had ever received, but Ron looked so vulnerable that it left her oddly moved. Perhaps it was easier for him, somehow, being out of Hogwarts and at her parents' house rather than at his. This might be their only chance in a long while.

"Okay," she said.

Ron nodded, his face serious. "Okay," he repeated. "Now what?"

"Now," she replied, "we take off our clothes and get into bed."

Ron nodded again. He looked petrified. "Okay," he said, and pulled his Christmas sweater over his head. Once committed, he moved quickly, and in less than thirty seconds he was naked. Holding his hands rather awkwardly over his groin, he shuffled across the room and climbed between the sheets. He pulled them right up to his chin.

Hermione watched him, her head tilted to one side. Ron's anxiety was like a thick, cloying gas, fogging up the room. Letting out a long breath through her nose, Hermione took off her own clothes, extricating her wand from her pocket and placing it on the dresser. She walked purposefully to the bed, smiled encouragingly at Ron, and then climbed in beside him. She lay on her side, facing him, and after a few seconds, he rolled from his back towards her.

They lay there for a long moment without touching, looking into each others' eyes.

"Give me your hand," she said, her voice only barely louder than a whisper.

Her fingers found his under the sheets. He was shaking.

"It's okay," she said and brought his hand up to cover her breast. "Come here and kiss me."

Ron moved towards her awkwardly, and they kissed. His body was stiff and the kisses were tentative rather than passionate. Hermione reached out and put a hand on his ribs, determined to overcome the reluctance he was projecting and the almost paralysing unwillingness she herself felt.

This was Ron. It shouldn't feel so uncomfortable.

She let her hand slide down to Ron's hip.

Ron recoiled, gasping, and his hand gripped at hers rather too firmly, crushing it against the bone of his hip.

"Wait," he said, his chest heaving. "I just need a minute."

Hermione had no illusions about perfect first-time sex, but she'd always imagined that things would be awkward because of their mutual enthusiasm, not because Ron was too terrified to be touched at all.

"Ron," she said, drawing out the vowel, "I'm not convinced that we're ready for this."

Ron flopped backwards and threw up an arm to cover his face.

"There's something wrong with me," he said, his voice muffled.

The genuine self-loathing that limned his words caught at Hermione's attention. She stared at him, her brows drawn together over the bridge of her nose.

"Ron?" she asked, and even before the question was spoken aloud she knew the answer with a certainty that blindsided her. "Are you gay?"

"I—no!" The intensity of his denial only served to make him less convincing. He grabbed hold of her upper arm so tightly that it hurt. "No!" he reiterated. "I . . ."

Hermione couldn't keep the scepticism from her face, and Ron faltered.

"Promise me you won't tell anyone," he whispered. "Promise!" The urgency in his voice was punctuated by an even tighter grip on her arm.

Hermione looked from one of Ron's panicked blue eyes to the other. "I promise not to tell anyone without your permission," she said.

Ron relaxed a little, and Hermione took the opportunity to prise his fingers from her arm. "Just hold on a minute," she said, reaching from the bed and scrabbling until her fingers closed around the handle of her wand. A quick swish and flick later, they were both clothed, Hermione in her favourite striped pyjamas, and Ron in the singlet and boxers he'd worn earlier under his clothes.

"There's nothing wrong with being gay, Ron," she commented, arranging the pillows so that she could sit up against the head of the bed.

"Maybe in the Muggle world there's not!" he retorted.

"Dumbledore was gay."

"Yeah, and look at how things worked out for him! He had one boyfriend_—_who was a terrible bigot! In between having sex, the two of them plotted the downfall of Muggles. Then his sister died!"

"Ron! Just because Gridelwald was . . . who he was, doesn't make being gay bad. You don't know how many happy romances Dumbledore might have had in later life."

"I read Rita's book, Hermione. Well, I read the bits about him being gay, at least. If there was any proof of his non-celibacy, she would have raked it up with great delight. As it was she implied that he'd had designs on Harry, on Snape, and on pretty much every bloke he ever came into contact with."

"You can't take Rita's example as indicative of the opinion of wizardingkind in general!"

Ron looked at her almost pityingly. "Go on, name one gay couple."

"Hooch and Madam Pomfrey," offered Hermione.

He rolled his eyes. "Name one gay couple that isn't employed at Hogwarts."

To be fair, Hermione didn't know that many adult wizards or witches who weren't employed at Hogwarts or weren't the parents of her friends, but still, it was a concern to draw a complete blank.

"Kingsley."

"Kingsley lives with his sister," replied Ron dismissively. "It would be impossible," he added, "for a gay or lesbian wizarding couple to raise a kid, like Thom and Carla and Liza."

There was something heartbreaking about the jut of his lower lip.

"Not impossible, Ron. It's just prejudice, like there is against Muggleborns. You have to stand up to it."

Ron turned his face away and determinedly refused to meet her eyes. Hermione reached out and put her hand on his shoulder.

"You'll have kids, Ron. I won't let anyone stop you."

"Oh, yeah? What are you going to do, exactly?" His voice cracked on the word "do." "Even with all the magic in the world, two blokes can't have babies."

"I'll have your babies!" The promise rushed out impulsively, but Hermione realised she meant it. "Not now, of course," she hastened to add. "But someday, when you're settled with a nice young man, and you've the money and time to take a stab at parenting. All we need is a thermometer, a plastic syringe and a clean glass jar. Liza told me all about it."

Ron turned towards her and stared. "You don't know what you're saying," he said, his voice flat and disbelieving.

"Yes, I do. I'm not prepared to have seven, let's be clear about that, but I'd do two. Of course I'd do that for you."

Ron's mouth was open with surprise, and Hermione saw tears well up and hover against the lower lids of his eyes.

"Oh, Ron," she said gently, and reached out her near arm. From where he lay propped in the bed, Ron rolled towards her and buried his face against the side of her body. A muffled sob escaped, and Hermione rubbed soothing circles on the gap between his shoulder blades. "It's okay," she murmured. "Everything is going to be just fine."

"I thought it would be different with you," he said, later, having calmed down somewhat. "I really love you, you know. I was so jealous of you and Krum, and even a few times of you and Harry. I always worried that you and Harry might get together and leave me out." He had rolled away only slightly and his head lay cradled in the crook of her arm. "I thought that you were my one chance of having a normal life, of having a family."

Hermione pulled a sympathetic face and reached out to stroke the hair back off his forehead.

"Are you in love with Harry?"

"I . . ." Ron paused and took a deep breath. "I guess in a way I always have been, but now . . . I dunno, I can't imagine actually kissing him or anything. It would be weird, kind of like kissing one of my brothers."

Hermione said nothing in reply, merely stroking Ron's hair again. Oddly, she felt closer to him now than she had since the defeat of Voldemort, and simultaneously relieved that the romantic, sexual aspect of their relationship was no longer an issue. Her heart felt swollen with a tender, melancholy love for the redheaded boy in her arms.

"You know," she said suddenly, struck by a thought, "I read a study once that found that the more older brothers a boy had, the more likely he was to be gay."

A surprised huff escaped Ron. "I guess I didn't have much of a chance," he said.

"Hey, Ron?" He heard the new, more serious note in her voice and turned his face towards her. "From now on, let's . . . let's always be honest with each other, you and me?"

Before she was finished, he was nodding—quickly and repeatedly, as if the enthusiasm of the gesture leant it extra gravity. "I'm so sorry—I never, _ever_ wanted to hurt you. Hermione, I honestly thought—I believed—"

"It's okay. I'm not upset." And she wasn't. She was a little sad to say goodbye to the idyllic daydream of her and Ron plus Harry and Ginny as an unbreakable, eternal family unit, oh-so-neatly constructed and stable for evermore, but at the same time, a new, seductive possibility of solid, unromantic friendships with both her boys was emerging from the rubble. "I genuinely think we're better off as friends."

Ron looked at her searchingly, worried she was putting on a brave face. Hermione gave him a reassuring smile.

"Total honesty?" she asked.

"Total honesty," he asserted, pushing himself up onto his elbow and holding out his hand.

They shook on it.

"So, you love Harry," said Hermione, when they were settled on the bed again, "but you're not in love with him."

"That's one way to put it," replied Ron.

"And you love me, but you're not in love with me."

"Right. I'm really sorr—"

"Don't worry about it,"—Hermione nudged him companionably—"I'm not in love with you, either."

Ron's shoulders relaxed back down onto the bed and he gave her a goofy smile.

"What about Neville, then?"

The smile faltered, and Ron stared at her for a long moment. "Totally honesty?" he asked, finally.

Hermione shrugged.

"I think that . . . well, maybe. I guess I kind of like him." Ron took a deep breath and let it out quickly. "He's nice. He's really nice, and, you know, he looks good."

Hermione grinned at the self-conscious, slightly defensive justification.

"He looks great," she confirmed. "He's lost his baby fat, he's toned up, grown about a foot."

"Yeah." Ron turned his head towards her, and Hermione looked at the closeness of his face, the blur of rusty stubble across his jaw, the pattern of freckles on his cheek. "I never imagined lying here, talking to you about this," he said. "It's . . ." he was searching for the right word, "it's really nice."

Hermione nodded. "Yes." She felt surprisingly happy. Suddenly she reached out to grab his arm. "Tell me everything!" she demanded.

"Everything?" Ron raised both eyebrows and pulled his head back to look at her sceptically.

"Everything," she confirmed. She wanted to keep hold of this shared moment of honesty, to fill it up with the truth of Ron. They'd lost sight of each other these last few months and she wanted to reclaim the feeling of knowing him better than she knew her own self.

He was tentative at first, but soon the words were spilling out of him. At some point, Hermione turned the lights off, and they talked long into the night. They talked about her relationship with Viktor, about his with Lavender ("I mean, please? Lavender?" Even in the dark Hermione could tell that Ron rolled his eyes. "There was never anything going on there but a desperate attempt to feel normal."), and they compared lists of which Gryffindor boys they considered cute.

"Surely," Ron asked, at about three thirty in the morning, "you must have a secret crush that will make me feel better about myself?"

His question seemed to suck all the oxygen from the room, and Hermione felt suddenly shaky.

"Well," she managed.

"There is! Oh, thank Merlin! Whose biceps have you been secretly admiring while holding my hand? Dean? Seamus?"

_Total honesty goes both ways,_ she told herself.

"Actually . . . you mustn't laugh."

"This is something serious?" Hermione heard his head shift on the pillow as he turned towards her.

Hermione nodded in the dark.

"I promise."

"I . . . I have a crush on Snape."

"Snape?" Disbelief, surprise and horror gave an edge to Ron's voice.

"You promised!"

"Wait!" Hermione had moved to sit up, but Ron grabbed at her and held her where she was. "I'm just getting used to the idea. Snape," he said in a considering tone. "Severus Snape."

Hermione couldn't believe that she'd told him. She felt agitated. She wanted to sit up, and she struggled against Ron's restrictive hold.

"Actually," said Ron, "I think you two would be good together."

"Don't mock me, Ronald," she said, her body held stiffly.

"I'm not. Seriously. He's different with you, I noticed that last year. I think he really respects you. Hell, he came to Christmas dinner at your house! Don't get me wrong, he's a scary, unfriendly bastard, but he's smart—which is something you need. And he's unswervingly devoted to the Order."

Ron still held her upper arm, but his grip had gentled. So, too, had the turmoil in her chest. He sounded sincere.

"He's my teacher," she said, voicing the obvious.

"Right, but not for long."

Hermione made a sceptical noise in the back of her throat.

"Honestly, it won't be that long. Blimey, I'd like to see the look on his face, though!"

Hermione smacked him gently in the ribs. "It's going to be odd," she said, struck by a sudden thought, "being back at school but not being a couple. We'll have to tell everybody."

"Why?" asked Ron. "Why do we need to break up?" He sounded unsettled.

"Um, because—"

"No, seriously, why? Think about it: if we break up, everyone will want to know the reason. No-one will understand why we're still friends. There's a huge risk that someone might work out the truth! But look at us! I certainly don't intend to put the moves on Neville, and you're not about to kiss, Snape. Why can't we just keep things the way they are?"

Hermione stared at the lighter grey square of her window, where, beyond the streetlights, dawn was starting to bleed out the black colour of the night. _Why not, indeed?_

"Okay," she said with unexpected conviction. "Yeah, okay. We'll stay together—in name, at least."

Ron tilted his head and leant it on her shoulder.

"I don't want either of us to feel limited or bound to each other, though," she warned. "If an opportunity arises for you, Ron, I want you to take it. And if—or when—something does happen, I want to hear about it from you, as soon as possible. That's not the kind of thing I want to hear from somebody else."

"Total honesty," said Ron gravely.

Hermione nodded. "Yes."

Their conversation was interrupted by a tapping at the window, and Hermione climbed out of bed to let in the large owl from the sill, shivering as a blast of cold air rushed into the room.

"Isn't that Malfoy's owl?" asked Ron, sitting up in the bed and rubbing a hand back through his hair. "Do you think he heard what we've been talking about?" He sounded genuinely concerned.

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Ron, it's an owl, not Malfoy himself in his Animagus form."

"You don't know that for sure!"

Sighing more with comic exaggeration than from exasperation, Hermione waved her wand over the owl. No change. "Happy?" she asked. She might not have transfigured herself, yet, but McGonagall had ingrained all of the related spells.

Ron sagged back onto the pillow with relief. "I bet that if Malfoy were an Animagus, he'd be a ferret. Remember the time that Mad Eye—"

"That wasn't Mad Eye," interrupted Hermione absently as she unfurled the letter and skimmed the contents. "It was Barty Crouch Jr."

"Same thing. It was still pretty amazing!" For several moments Ron was lost in pleasant recollection. "Why is the ferret writing to you for Christmas, anyway?"

"It's from Jocelyn."

"Oh. What does she want?" he asked.

Hermione read the letter aloud:

_Dear Hermione,_

_I'm sorry to bother you during the holidays, but I've decided to try and visit my mother sometime over the next few days and hoped that you might come with me. Having another Muggle-born witch there would mean a lot to me, especially one who is old enough to do magic if it were to prove necessary. And personally, your company in particular would be a great support to me._

_I hope that you've been having a lovely Christmas,_

_Jocelyn._

* * *

><p>On the way to meet Jocelyn, Hermione took the opportunity to slip into one of the larger Muggle bookstores. She parked Ron, who had insisted on accompanying her to the rendezvous, on a couch near the entrance and promised to be quick. She found the Tomlinson book on music and magic without trouble and, chancing her luck, got directions from a store clerk to the gay and lesbian section. The range of books was a little overwhelming, given her limited time, but she hastily selected an anthology of erotic fiction—grinning wickedly to herself at the black leather and handcuffs sported by the cover model. At the counter she paid for both books and had the one for Ron wrapped; she tucked them both into a magically capacious inside pocket and was back with Ron less than fifteen minutes later.<p>

Together they made their way to the coffee shop where she and Jocelyn had arranged to meet. There they found both of the Malfoy children. Ron and Draco glowered fiercely at each other, shaking hands as if the point were anything other than friendly.

"Thank god we're rid of those idiots," muttered Jocelyn, once she and Hermione had set out alone.

"Don't mind them," said Hermione. "They'll grow up eventually."

Jocelyn grimaced. "Gah," she said, "I'm feeling anxious and it's making me irritable."

They took a bus, quickly passing from the gentrified neighbourhood in which they'd met up to a more disreputable part of town.

"I couldn't let Draco see this," said Jocelyn once they'd disembarked. "He'd . . . die. And then he'd spend at least six weeks being overprotective and fussy."

She led Hermione into a grotty arcade, down some tiled stairs that had, perhaps, once been white, and through an underpass. They emerged back into the wintry sunlight at the entrance to a run-down residential estate.

"It's the far block," said Jocelyn, jerking her head at the furthest apartment tower.

Hermione followed without comment. Her hands were wadded deep into the pockets of her jacket, where the handle of her wand felt warm and ever-so-slightly pliant in her clenched fist.

The lift smelt faintly of urine and strongly of bleach, and they rode to the twelfth floor with an elderly man who had pressed every single button. It was a slow trip.

Jocelyn stood before flat 1215 without knocking.

"You're alright," said Hermione quietly. She reached out and placed her hand briefly on Jocelyn's elbow. It was the kind of thing Ron did, she realised: he touched people reassuringly.

"Yeah," said Jocelyn. She pulled a face and then reached out and knocked on the door.

Within the apartment there were noises: footsteps, an interior door creaked. Hermione watched the peephole and noted the moment when it darkened. She tried to look pleasant and harmless, though her skin crawled.

For a long moment, nothing happened. Then the door opened quickly, and a youngish woman with dirty blonde hair stepped into the corridor and pulled the door shut behind her with a decisive snap.

"What the hell are you doing here?" she hissed, her eyes on Jocelyn.

"Hi, mum." Jocelyn stared at her mother, drinking in the details of her appearance. Tight jeans, a sweater with glittered, collegiate-style writing on the front, too much mascara. "I needed to talk to you."

"Don't call me that!" The older woman ignored Hermione and cast a nervous glance down the corridor in both directions. She held both arms crossed defensively over her front. "That—_horrible_—man said that I . . . I wasn't—"

Hermione had to force herself to breathe deeply and to keep her wand in her pocket. Her fingers itched to shut that mouth up, to stop it spewing such nasty words.

Jocelyn just sighed. "Professor Snape isn't here," she said. "And just because your not my legal parent any more doesn't stop you from being my mother. You pushed me out of your vagina, remember?"

Something bitter and unhappy twisted at the woman's face. "Watch your mouth, young lady," she snapped. "And hurry up. I don't want you hanging about round here."

"I . . ." Jocelyn swallowed. "It's about my father. I need to know—"

"Don't bother," said her mother, rudely cutting her off. "He'd have no time for the likes of you. More class in his little finger, than—"

"Actually, mum, I live with him now."

There was something about Jocelyn's tone that reminded Hermione of Snape. Something she thought of as distinctively Slytherin: cold, hard, and at least three steps ahead of their interlocutor.

"You, you live with Luke?" Jocelyn's mother had been thrown for a loop, and the invocation of Lucius Malfoy pulled out unconscious physical responses. She stood straighter, her face brightened despite her shock, and she tucked a stray strand of hair behind on ear.

"Yes."

"Does he ever ask after me?"

The coy tone in her voice sickened Hermione. She bit her tongue.

"No." Jocelyn's bald response garnered her an ugly glare. "Mum, I need to ask you something: the night you spent with him, did he . . . force you?"

"Your father," responded the other woman in outraged tones, "was a perfect gentleman!"

"Well, I guess that answers that, then. Thank you for your time." Jocelyn took a half step back.

"Wait—" Jocelyn's mother's hands tightened their grip over her own midriff. "Your father, Luke, is he . . . like you?"

"He's a wizard, if that's what you're asking," said Hermione, breaking her silence. Nothing about Lucius Malfoy was _like Jocelyn_, except the colour of his hair and the shape of his chin.

The other woman's eyes slid sideways, focussing on Hermione for the first time. "So," she said.

The protective way in which her arms encircled her belly suddenly clicked into place.

"It is unlikely that another child of yours would be magical," said Hermione, trying to choke her fury back under the surface of her own Snape impersonation. "Unless the father were also a wizard, the possibility is extraordinarily slim."

Jocelyn looked like someone had slapped her; her mother, in contrast, sagged back against the door in relief.

"Well, then," replied the other woman brightly, "that is good news." She turned her gaze back to Jocelyn. "Do say hi to Luke for me!"

With that, she turned and let herself back into the apartment. Hermione heard the clatter of both the bolt and the chain.

"Are you okay?"

Jocelyn nodded and jerked her head towards the elevator. "Let's get out of here."

They didn't speak again until their feet touched the pavement at street level.

"I can't bear the likelihood that Ron and Draco are still glaring at each other," said Jocelyn.

Hermione heard it as a request to spend more time together before meeting back with the boys.

"Do you want to get a drink elsewhere? Hot chocolate? Butterbeer?" she asked.

"You like fish and chips?" asked Jocelyn, still wary.

"Love them."

Jocelyn smiled, though her face didn't light up in her usual fashion. "Great, follow me." She slipped her small hand into the crook of Hermione's arm, and they disappeared down the narrow gap between two buildings. "My shout," she said, "the Malfoy money has to be good for something."

* * *

><p>AN: That's the end of the chapter, my friends, though here's another (true) story to tide you over. Not that long ago, when my three-year-old daughter was a two-year-old daughter, she picked up a copy of Harry Potter and asked me to read it to her. I told her that it was a great story, but that she had to wait until she was older to be able to read it. Now three, she pulled it off the shelf once again and announced—in a happy, proud voice: "I am big now, so I can read Harry Potter!" Despite my protests, she ensconced herself on the couch and started to turn the pages. She narrated the story aloud for my benefit: "Once upon a time there was a boy called Harry Potter! One day he decided to ride the bus!" Me: "Well, actually, it was a train—" "No, mummy, a bus!" This went on. Suffice to say, this may well be the YOUNGEST Harry Potter fan fic author in action. Clearly she takes after me ;)

In other news, I had a crappy, crappy week. You?


	19. Chapter 18: Foundations

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 18: Foundations

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: HELLO! Sorry to have disappeared on you all for a moment there; life threw multiple balls at once and I dropped more than one of them. Things are going to be a little crazy for the rest of the month (UNDERSTATEMENT), so there may or may not be another update until April. Keep your fingers crossed for me! Big thanks to everyone who sent a message or review. I loves you all.

This chapter is for Frierth, because she's "crazy like that". :)

* * *

><p>Severus gazed at his surroundings and wondered—for perhaps the first time since his rather tormented teen years—how Spinner's End looked through the eyes of others. Dark, he decided. And dirty. With a deep sigh, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and set to work—ignoring, through sheer force of mind, the slight fuzziness of vision that his hangover potion had failed to vanish.<p>

He began in the living room and moved from there to the kitchen, cleaning, scouring and polishing with a potent mixture of magic and elbow grease. At lunchtime, he wandered to the local and devoured a roast beef sandwich with gravy and chips, washing it down with a pint of bitter. Then Severus returned to the house and moved upstairs. His own room wasn't too bad; over the last twenty years, that room had been cleaned more frequently than any other. The bathroom, in contrast, was a write off. Nothing would bring the cracked, yellowed tiles back to anything near their original state, and the tub was stained with rusty, brown streaks. Severus resolved to have the room renovated. There was a firm in Hogsmeade that used elven labour—it was expensive, but the job would be done quickly and well.

The small room gave him pause. The bed would have to go, he decided, folding his long limbs into the battered wooden chair and surveying the scene. The desk was tiny, and the surface scratched. That, though, he would keep. Absent-mindedly, he reached out and rubbed the ball of his thumb over the letters "L.E." which had been gouged into the centre of the desk in a spot once covered by his blotter. Yes, the desk could stay, as could the chair.

That decision made, he stood, and vanished the bed. As the sagging mattress with its uncomfortable springs disappeared from view, he felt an unexpected sense of pleasure. _Good riddance_. He wondered where he might be able to purchase a bed like those they had at Hogwarts. Undoubtedly Minerva would know.

Only a handful of books remained on the shelves that covered most all of the wall space, and Severus took them down and dusted them carefully. He cleaned the shelves, the floor, the desk and the chair. He emptied out the closet and the small chest of drawers, vanishing everything that Wormtail had left behind.

By that point, it was well and truly dark outside. Severus switched off the lights and made sure that no passers by were visible from the window, then he enlarged the window and conjured a new set of curtains. He couldn't be sure, but he hoped that the extra light would make a welcome difference to the room during the day. For good measure, he put a Notice-Me-Not charm on the outside of the frame. That should ensure that none of his neighbours noticed his less-than-subtle attempts at home improvement.

Tired, but pleased with himself, Severus returned to Hogwarts late that evening. He'd missed dinner, but the house elves were more than happy to bring him a meal in his rooms. Now his house was clean, he just had to decide what to do with it.

* * *

><p>Minerva spent the Christmas holidays in North America somewhere, attending an academic conference and rendezvousing with her latest intellectual paramour. She returned to Hogwarts late in the evening on the day before term began, her hair loose and swinging behind her.<p>

Severus, Hooch and Poppy had all contrived to be present in the Staff Room at the moment of her arrival, and Hooch practically hooted with glee at the Headmistress's relaxed appearance.

"Positively post-coital, Min," crowed Hooch. "You look like the cat who got the proverbial cream."

Minerva smirked, revealing a dimple, and settled herself elegantly into the available armchair. She crossed one leg over the other and used her wand to Summon both a cup of tea and a bottle of Firewhisky from the counter.

"All in all, it was a very satisfying conference," she proclaimed, tucking a long strand of black hair back behind one ear. If anything, the smirk deepened.

"I take it that you and your pen-pal progressed beyond the pleasantries, then." Hooch was grinning from ear to ear.

Minerva affected a far away look, and when she replied, did so softly enough that only those in her immediate vicinity could hear her. "That woman," she murmured, "can do things with a quill that heretofore I have only dreamed of."

At that, Poppy's laughter rang out like a bell, and Hooch chuckled. Before the dratted women could press for even more salacious details, an unscheduled mail owl swooped through the fanlight over the door and landed on the arm of Minerva's chair. The address, Severus saw, was written in purple ink.

"Impossible!" expostulated Hooch. "She must have paid a fortune to have that arrive so shortly after you did!"

"If you would all excuse me," said Minerva, gathering her skirts around her primly and gifting the owl with her barely touched shot of Firewhisky, "this missive deserves a private reading."

"Still the same old Minerva," declared Poppy to the other woman's retreating back, a genuine warmth robbing the words of any sting.

Hooch shook her head in mock despair and rolled her eyes heavenwards.

"Bed for you, too, I think," added Poppy, directing the comment at Hooch.

"Already—?" Hooch swallowed whatever resistance she'd intended to mount at the sight of Poppy's contemplative expression.

"Yes, I've some experiments to undertake involving you and a set of feathered pens."

Hooch had the decency to blush. "Er, we'll be off then, Snape. Don't do anything I wouldn't do."

Severus found himself sitting at the coffee table with only an intoxicated owl for company. Moments later, the bird abandoned him, too, flapping off rather unsteadily in the direction of the owlery.

"On the bright side," commented Kaleisha Shacklebolt, interrupting the beginnings of a promising funk, "it seems there's hope for our own sex lives in relatively late middle age."

Reflexively, he scowled at her.

"Oh, don't glare at me like that, Snape." Kaleisha grinned and manoeuvred her chair closer to the table. "I hear from Irma that you're wanting to consult one of the legal records I've got out from the library."

Severus remembered one of the other reasons he was feeling irritated by Kaleisha.

"How is it possible," he snapped, "for one person to check out every single current volume of the Ministry's Registry of Laws? There's a gap in the shelving that Hagrid could hide in!"

"I had work to do over the holidays and Irma did me a favour," replied Kaleisha, unperturbed by his tone. "Let me do you a favour in return. Almost certainly I can tell you the dry legal details you seek much faster than you could find them in the registry."

Severus hadn't wanted to ask Kaleisha directly for help. Though the registry was cumbersome and the index laughably inadequate, he had planned to slough through the task on his own and keep the content of his query to himself.

He knew that he kept his face impassive, and his Occlumency shields were second to none, yet Kaleisha somehow seemed to know what he was thinking, regardless. She gave him a deeply sympathetic look.

"I've been meaning to talk to you for ages, anyway," she said, "about the full rights and responsibilities of your guardianship of Jocelyn Malfoy."

Severus said nothing.

"It's an unusual situation, since historically most guardianships are granted in the absence or incapacitation of both parents—not, as is the case here, in the instance of parental wrongdoing that has very little to do with the actual treatment of the child. Still, in essence, your responsibilities are unchanged: your commitment is to Jocelyn. You are to act in her best interest, even where those interests conflict with those of her legal parents."

"What if it were in Jocelyn's best interest to remove her entirely from her father's care?"

"Technically, you would be well within your rights. But Lucius Malfoy would be within his to sue you for custody. Once the case reached court he could argue to have your guardianship revoked." Kaleisha grimaced. "The man has a way with juries; you might want to avoid a court case if you possibly can."

"Brilliant," said Severus dismissively, "I shall defend Jocelyn from Lucius by leaving him in complete control."

"Therein, as I understood it, lies your special talent." There was an edge to Kaleisha's voice, and Severus took a vicious flash of pleasure in the knowledge that he'd needled her. Almost immediately, however, her shoulders drooped and she sighed. "Honestly, Severus," she said in a more even voice, "I don't think that it's in Jocelyn's best interest to be separated entirely from her father. He serves as a particularly productive counter-example of behaviour and personality.

"Moreover, Lucius cannot object to you spending time with your ward—afternoons, weekends, even perhaps whole weeks. He will not want to break with either of you publicly, so as long as you take care not to impinge on the legitimacy of his paternal claim, he should bear with the situation with every evidence of good grace."

She was right. Right about how to manage the situation, and right that such subtle manipulation was entirely within his capabilities. But who was manipulating whom? Severus remembered Kaleisha and Kingsley's presence at Jocelyn's paternity test, and the alacrity with which they'd signed him on as guardian. If the end result was that which he would have wanted anyway, was it to his benefit for the Shacklebolts to think that they'd had some control of the situation? What was it that they thought he might be unwilling to do?

"I assure you, Severus, that I am very willing to answer whatever arcane question sent you to the ledger in the first place."

"The original question is irrelevant." _Now_, he added silently. _It's irrelevant now that you've already answered it._

Kaleisha smiled and moved her hands against the levers of her chair as if to move. But then she stopped.

"One other thing, Severus."

He sighed, over-dramatically, and steepled his fingers. "Yes?" he asked, his voice positively dripping boredom.

"About Jocelyn. She—at least, it seems to me—that she might be gay. I don't know whether she's opened up to you on the topic, but that might be another thing she's struggling with."

Severus looked back at her, his face impassive. Of course Jocelyn was gay. To his mind, it was the only thing she wasn't struggling with—that and schoolwork, which she was dealing with effortlessly. Kaleisha was waiting for a response.

"I will keep your concerns in mind."

"Thank you, Severus."

* * *

><p>Granger knocked on his office door at precisely eight o'clock, came in as directed and sat down in the chair opposite his desk. She swung her satchel onto her lap and pulled out his Wolfbane notes and a spiral-bound notebook.<p>

"Well?" he asked, resolutely smothering a smile that pulled at the corners of his mouth. Granger was practically vibrating and he would bet gold Galleons that Ronald Fucking Weasley didn't get to share this kind of intellectual excitement with her.

"Well, I did some preliminary equations—"

"Of course you did."

Granger just smirked at his resigned tone. "Basically, I've narrowed the division of the ingredients down into three possible combinations."

Severus held out his hand, and Granger flipped rapidly through her notebook to find the right page.

"Here," she said.

Severus took the book and placed it on the desk. Granger scooted her chair forwards, leaning forwards to point out the key elements of the equations and the three most-favourable solutions. Her elbows were on his desk, and several curls had slipped out from the messy bun she wore atop her head and hung down against her face. She pushed one back behind her ear.

The calculation seemed straightforward enough. Severus spent a moment considering the three lists of potions ingredients; he pushed all thought of Hermione's hair aside and forced himself to concentrate.

"Of course," clarified Granger, "these lists don't take into account the extra ingredients that will need to be added, they just—"

"This one." He placed his finger on the second pair of lists.

"Really? Why?" Granger tilted her head round further to stare at her own work. The hair slipped out from behind her ear.

"Instinct."

"Don't be ridiculous, Snape! You can't base our whole experiment on 'instinct'! I just need to add in some further variables and perhaps refine the equation through Parkinson's dis-equilibrium co-efficient and then solve for _runyip_. Just let me . . ."

Granger darted down to extricate a self-inking quill from her satchel and pulled the notebook back over to her side of the desk. She bent her head to her calculations.

For a long moment, Severus thought that Granger might have forgotten that he was there, so engrossed was she in the work. For his part, he leant back in his chair and watched her. She had her lower lip between her teeth.

After a while, he pulled out a book and read, looking up intermittently to answer highly specific questions about details of the brewing process and the various characteristics of the raw ingredients. Granger coded his answers into the incredibly complicated equation she had sketched over several pages. Twice she frowned at her work and erased sections of it, but after almost two hours of fierce labour, she put down her quill and ran both hands up into her hair, gathering together all the loose strands and twisting them back together.

"Okay," she said, "I think I've got it: _Solutio_."

The ink shimmered for a second, and then solved. Granger looked at her answer and then flipped back several pages to the initial lists.

"It's the second option," she stated.

She stared down at her page, her lips pursed. His own smile stretched his mouth wide, and when Granger slowly lifted her eyes to his, she pulled a face at him and laughed at herself.

"Excellent work," he said, only partly mocking her. "I'm glad that we agree. Next week we can start working out exactly what needs to be added to the two halves of the mixture."

* * *

><p>That Friday, Severus got to the Order meeting early enough to secure his preferred wingchair. From there, he watched the other members walk, wander and slink into the room, chatting awkwardly or happily as was their wont.<p>

When Draco arrived, he glared at Potter and Ronald Weasley before striding over to claim the chair next to Severus. Once seated, he crossed his arms.

"What was that about?" asked Severus, too quietly for anyone else to hear.

Draco had opened his mouth to answer, but when Ginevra Weasley got up from her chair and crossed the room towards them, he shut it with a snap.

"Hi, Draco," she said. "Can I sit here?" She gestured at the chair on Draco's other side.

"Be my guest," said Draco, sitting a little straighter.

"Good afternoon, Professor," she said as she sat down.

Severus acknowledged the greeting with a movement of his head. On the other side of the room, Potter was looking miserable and his ginger-haired sidekick looked furious.

"I want to apologise for my brother, Draco. When I heard that he'd punched you, I was horrified."

Draco touched his nose reflexively and grimaced. "Don't worry about it," he said gallantly. "We can't be held responsible for the actions of our relatives."

"Muggle fighting, now?" interpolated Severus, seizing a welcome opportunity to tease Draco. "You really have turned over a new leaf."

"We were in a Muggle coffee shop at the time, he couldn't exactly pull out his wand, could he?"

At that, Severus turned to Draco, his eyes widened with mock surprise and both eyebrows arched towards his hairline. "You and Weasley? In a coffee shop?"

Draco coloured and slipped down somewhat in his chair. "Look," he replied a little grumpily, "it wasn't my idea."

Severus shook his head and tsked in a fair imitation of Dumbledore. "Indeed," he said, letting his tone of voice speak volumes, and turning back to his surveillance of the room.

Granger came in shortly afterwards with Vector, and the two of them took seats together against the wall. Granger smiled at him and waved at Weasley as she glanced around the room, checking who was there. Severus noticed that she also caught Phineas' eye and smiled at him, too.

Minerva was late—even though the meeting was being held in her office—and when she finally swept in she had Andromeda Tonks and her grandson, Teddy, in tow. Minerva was beaming delightedly. The appearance of the baby caused the kind of stir that Severus detested. As Andromeda made a fuss about letting the child's godfather have a hold, he toyed with the idea of calling for silence and starting the meeting.

Potter looked terrified, and the child—who couldn't have been much older than eight or nine months—wailed loudly as soon as Andromeda passed him across.

Beside Severus, Draco snickered.

"Not like that, mate," expostulated Weasley. "Here, let me take him—hey there, little fellow."

Weasley faced the child in towards his shoulder and bumped him gently up and down. The wailing stopped as if he'd cast a Silencio. In the general outcry of conversation that greeted this act, Weasley tried—and failed—to look modest. Severus watched as Weasley and Granger exchanged a long, nauseatingly tender gaze. Granger smiled with genuine pride and then held up two fingers, close to her chest. She pointed from herself to Weasley and nodded. Weasley, for his part, looked delighted and overwhelmed. He practically buried his face in the child's tiny shoulder.

Severus felt sick.

He gripped the arm of his chair so tightly that his knuckles stood out white against his skin. He wished—foolishly—that he'd let Fawkes come with him.

_Did they—were they—had they—_

Through sheer force of will, Severus shut down the traitorous thoughts and locked the memory of what he'd just seen away into a shuttered box made of Occlumency shields. He couldn't afford to think about that right now, perhaps never. He had a job to do.

By the time Minerva looked at him in a silent invitation to start the meeting, he was as cool and sharp as a blade. They ran through most of the agenda items in record time—partly because of Severus' cutting mood, but also because very little had changed. They knew almost nothing about potential attackers and had no way to destroy the Elder Wand. The only person with any new material to add was Granger.

She had had an idea: a crazy, unexpected idea that left some members of the Order intrigued and others unconvinced.

"I worry that we've been going about this the wrong way." Someone snorted, rather rudely, but Granger merely set her chin a little higher and continued. "The Elder Wand has been handed down from Dark Wizard to Dark Wizard for countless generations, and from each master, the wand itself learnt something, imbibing part of their power and skill."

Potter nodded his agreement, but others shrugged. This was not new information.

"Up until now, we have considered a huge number of ways to destroy the wand: all aggressive, all modes of attack."

Severus narrowed his eyes as he considered Granger. He had a niggling sensation that there was something he'd forgotten, something important concerning her that he couldn't quite put his finger on.

"These are exactly the forms of magical knowledge that the Wand itself is best equipped to counter."

"What are you suggesting, Miss Granger?" It was Minerva who asked, and she leant forwards in her chair, intent on the response.

"Perhaps, rather than hate and destruction, we should try . . . love." Her voice faltered, just slightly, on the final word.

Remarkably, it was Potter who demurred.

"Not this again!" He ran a hand through his messy hair and recited, sing-song: "_And he shall have a power the Dark Lord knows not!_ For years Dumbledore tried to convince me that the power was love. Well, he was wrong. I had the Deathly Hallows—not love—and without them, I wouldn't have had the opportunity to come back and fight with Voldemort. Without them, his Adava Kedavra would have killed me, because _he_ would have been the master of the Elder Wand, not me!"

Granger sat through Potter's outburst without responding, though she did cast a rather exasperated glance up at Dumbledore's portrait. Several people were shifting in their seats, but it was Minerva who spoke; she looked disappointed.

"There is no magic that can control love," said Minerva gently. "Even the most potent Love Potion deals in infatuation, not the real thing."

"But there is a magic that can manifest love," insisted Granger. "Sympathetic magic."

"Wait," said Potter, raising a hand for silence. "Is this about your History of Magic project?"

His tone was almost comically dismissive, and Granger bristled in response.

"This is not _about_ my project, Harry, though it was the project that got me thinking about the possibilities! Sympathetic magic uses aural or physical vibrations to induce sympathetic movement in another object or person." For a second, her eyes met Severus', but her expression was totally unreadable. "Who knows how the Elder Wand would react were it surrounded by a resonant, vibrating field of pure love?" she continued. "Perhaps the wand would be totally unaffected, but perhaps it would be torn apart!"

"Let me get this straight, you're suggesting that we destroy the Elder Wand with love songs?"

Granger glared at Potter. "Yes. But not just any love song."

"Please tell me it's not _A Cauldron Full of Hot, Strong Love_," muttered Draco. Severus heard Ginevra smother a laugh.

"What, then?" demanded Potter.

"I haven't figured that out yet."

There was an awkward pause.

"Look, Harry," added Granger, "I don't think you should dismiss the idea just because you thought Dumbledore was wrong about love. He didn't exactly have everybody's best interests at heart"—Granger didn't look at the portrait and managed to give her words an edge reminiscent of Minerva at her best—"but one can only hope that in this instance he was trying to think beyond the so-called Final Battle."

Potter looked sulky, but he, like most of the assembled company, couldn't help glancing up at the picture of Dumbledore.

"Albus?" inquired Minerva. "Do you have anything to add?"

"Indeed, Minerva, I do!" Dumbledore beamed down at Granger, blue eyes twinkling. "On several occasions Severus saw fit to inform me that I'd underestimated this young lady, and I can't tell you how delighted I am that he has been proved correct once again!"

"Are you saying that every time you talked about love being my true power, you had the destruction of the Elder Wand in mind?"

"Yes and no, Harry," said Albus, turning a sympathetic gaze on Potter. "Beating Riddle at his own game was out of the question. I knew that in your confrontation with Tom you needed to avoid Dark Magic at all costs. No matter what tool you used to defeat him in the end, the path to that victory was through love. Only because you loved your friends, Harry, were you willing to sacrifice yourself for them. And only because you were willing to die did the selfish Horcrux that Riddle had hidden inside you rise up and try to fight against his Adava Kedavra. Without love, you would be dead—even with the Hallows at your disposal. In essence, your issue with the Elder Wand has strong parallels." Albus looked over his glasses at the assembled Order members. "I have a lot of faith in the approach that Miss Granger is proposing. Whether or not the sympathetic magic turns out to be the ultimate solution to the problem, the reasoning behind it is promising indeed."

Severus decided that it was time to take control of the meeting before it devolved into a drawn-out discussion.

"Granger," he said. Everyone swivelled around in their seats to look at him. "What do you foresee the next steps to be?"

"I need to do some more research. Some calculations." Granger glanced around the room. "I would appreciate some assistance from Professor Vector, but otherwise this is something that, at this early stage, I can continue working on by myself."

Severus briefly considered a cutting comment on the topic of Granger's copious quantities of spare time, but contented himself with nodding. "Very well," he said. "Once you have more information to present, we will expect a report." Severus had a deep longing for the meeting to be over. "Is there anything else?" he asked, mustering his most forbidding tone.

His words met with a brief silence, broken by a self-conscious movement from Tracey Davis.

"Miss Davis?"

"I just wanted to say, that I could help Hermione—if she wanted."

"Miss Granger?"

"Tracey's help would be very much appreciated."

"Very well. Meeting dismissed."

Severus rose to his feet and swept from the room with a sense of relief. He had a strong sense that there was an important memory he had to view—in private.

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><p>AN: Well, the plot thickens and will continue to do so. Cast your mind back, if you will, to the author's note that accompanied the prologue. There, I made this statement: **Please note also that this story contains (at various points) references to, discussion and/or descriptions of violent acts and mature themes, including war, death, physical violence, emotional trauma, sexual assault, rape, abortion, and consensual sex between adults. There are some nice things, too, I promise! **Some of those things are going to come up in the next chapter. Nothing is too graphic, but if you have specific triggers, feel free to PM me and I can give you a fair warning-I don't want to spoil the plot for everybody, so no details here in this public space.

As I said at the begin, I love you all! Keep me in your thoughts, this month is a bumpy ride.


	20. Chapter 19: The Greater Good

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 19: The Greater Good

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

WARNING: Check back at the end of the last chapter for a head up on what might happen here. Please note that the opinions expressed by characters in this story are fictional and NOT the opinions of the author.

* * *

><p>Second term was like a new lease on life. Things between Hermione and Ron were much, much better. Now that they were a couple in name alone, they managed to finally act as if they were one. Harry, for one, had noticed the changed dynamic between his two best friends, and though he rolled his eyes and teased them about their obvious contentment, he too seemed happier as a consequence. Ginny had spoken about the situation to Hermione in her usual direct manner—think: "That must've been some apology." And Hermione was almost certain that Neville seemed a little put out, but that could have been wishful thinking.<p>

Inspired, no doubt, by Ron's apparent success and urged on by what Hermione privately termed "the intervention," Harry took the advice of his two best friends: he bought a bunch of flowers and straight up apologised to Ginny, both for his behaviour at the ball and during the entire time since the Hogsmeade attack. Ginny was noticeably mollified and had agreed to go on regular "dates" with Harry where they spent time together, away from the press and conversation of the Common Room. She made it clear that she was also meeting with Draco, but Hermione got the distinct impression that was to keep Harry on his toes.

In addition to the relative peace on the friendship front, Hermione was also spending a decent amount of time with Jocelyn. Not long into the term, they ran into each other in the hall after breakfast. Jocelyn had a piece of parchment clutched in one hand and a scowl on her face.

"Everything okay?" asked Hermione, reaching out a hand to catch the younger girl's attention.

Jocelyn started, taken aback. "I, yeah, I'm okay." She gestured with the crumpled wad of parchment. "Just another letter from Lucius." She pulled a face.

"You want to talk about it?"

"I . . ." Jocelyn tailed off, glancing down at the letter and then back up at Hermione. "Not here," she said, stuffing the letter rather unceremoniously into a pocket.

"Come on," said Hermione, "we'll find an alcove."

They found a deserted study nook among those that lined the courtyard. Jocelyn made herself comfortable on the wooden bench, putting up her feet and pulling her legs up against her chest. Hermione sat down beside her and leaned her head back against the gothic panelling.

"You want to talk about the letter?" she asked.

Jocelyn pulled a face. "The letter itself isn't that big of a deal; it's mostly about Draco. It's just him. Lucius. At school I can usually do a pretty good job of pretending he doesn't exist, but when he sends me letters every week I'm obliged to remember."

"I _hate_ him," said Hermione, surprising herself at the vehemence with which the words came out. In her mind's eye, she saw Lucius Malfoy in his dining room, standing by while Bellatrix Lestrange emptied her vitriol into Hermione's body; she remembered seeing Jocelyn in the doorway, and how young she'd looked in that ridiculous white nightgown. She saw him, too, in the bowels of the Ministry of Magic, chasing five teenagers around with intent to kill; she saw him in Flourish and Blotts, insulting Mr Weasley while he slipped Tom Riddle's diary into Ginny's cauldron.

"Yeah," said Jocelyn, "me, too."

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Jocelyn poked her finger into a fraying seam on her trainer and wriggled it. "You want to know the crazy thing?" she asked.

"Tell me," said Hermione.

"That day when Snape came and rescued me from my mother's house, we went to Diagon Alley together. It was only a week or so after he'd killed Dumbledore, and he had to go in disguise. He used Plurijuice—you know it?"

Hermione nodded.

"It made him look just like me, like he was related to me. He told me to call him," she paused, and swallowed before continuing. "He told me to call him, 'daddy.' He took me shopping. He bought me ice-cream, and books, and new clothes, and fooled the idiot at the Ministry building into giving me a new wand. It was . . . _magic_."

Jocelyn's use of the word hit Hermione hard. Few people here used it that way, ever. The purebloods wouldn't even understand what it meant, but for those who had grown up without magic, the very fact of their daily life now required a continual suspension of disbelief. She wanted to hug Jocelyn, but instead she tilted her head sideways and rested it on Jocelyn's shoulder.

"On that one, perfect day," said Jocelyn, "I built an entire fucking fantasy of our life together. I imagined that after the war, Snape would be my father. That he would adopt me, somehow." She screwed up her face, trying to diffuse the intensity of her confession, to make light of herself. "Quite honestly," she said, "I'd accounted for every detail—I imagined what it would be like to live in his quarters here at Hogwarts, even imagined what presents he would give me on my birthday."

Hermione sympathy was so great that she could taste Jocelyn's desire. Her own fantasy life with Snape was as vividly detailed, if differently structured. She'd imagined breakfasts together, reading over the coffee pot; elaborate dinner parties; Christmas dinner with her family for years to come. Lots of sex and intelligent conversation.

"It was bad enough to find out that Lucius fucking Malfoy was my father, but then to realise that it couldn't—ever—be Snape. That makes it worse."

"Jocelyn," said Hermione, reaching out and taking her hand, "I'm so glad to have you in my life."

Jocelyn laughed, and pulled a face.

"Seriously, though," added Hermione, "once I graduate, I'll have to find myself somewhere to live, and there will _always_ be room for you there. If you want to spend the holidays somewhere other than here or at Malfoy Manor, you can come stay with me."

"Watch out," warned Jocelyn, "with an offer like that you might find me a permanent fixture."

"I wouldn't mind in the least."

Overhead, the bell of the clock tower rang out.

"Shit," said Jocelyn, "I gotta go to class."

"We should do this again."

"Seriously? You want to listen to me whinge and moan?"

"Seriously."

Jocelyn looked at her askance, but gave her a slow smile that took all of the sting out of it. "Sure, I'd love that."

And meet they did. Once or twice each week they found a few minutes to slip away. They discussed all sorts of things, but most importantly, they talked about the war. Jocelyn's experience was so different from Hermione's, and hearing a different perspective helped Hermione a lot, as did the talks themselves. All in all, her renewed relationship with Jocelyn was one of better things about the new year.

The very best thing about the new term, however, was her time with Snape. Aconite flowers were so infrequently used in potioneering that the reactions of the sensitive blooms to many of the possible additions to their recipe were poorly understood. Just as Hermione was adamant that they prove each Arithmantic element of the process beyond all doubt, Snape had insisted that they undertake a full spectrographic analysis of the interaction of each of the potential stabilisers and additives.

It was a slow process, but Hermione found it interesting and instructive. She was good at Potions, but only because she was good at following rules and remembering the vast array of relevant factoids. Watching Snape make guesses and observing his fast reflexes when he guessed wrong, on the other hand, gave her a real sense of the possibilities of the discipline. She knew full well that she'd never have his skill with a cauldron, but she could see the similarities between his passion for the material and hers for Arithmancy. Snape would never, ever be able to calculate the way she could, either—though he could follow most of what she did and knew enough to appreciate her moments of greatest brilliance. All in all, their work together was a real pleasure.

One night, after two ingredients had reacted exactly as expected and a third had fizzled into an unusable, magic-less mess, Hermione scaled the stairs to her dormitory and shouldered open the door. Only then did she notice that she'd interrupted something private. Her two roommates were sitting on Lavender's bed, their heads turned towards the door and startled expressions on their tear-streaked faces.

"I'm sorry!" Hermione exclaimed politely. "I didn't realise!" Hastening backwards, she resigned herself to another hour or so in the common room, stuck listening to Ron and Neville droning on about Quidditch.

"Wait!"

The sound of Lavender's voice stopped Hermione. She could imagine few situations where either girl would discuss sensitive information with her. Torn between raging curiosity and a deep reluctance to get involved, Hermione glanced back into the room.

Parvati, typically, managed to look beautiful even with tear streaks across her cheeks; Lavender was another matter altogether. Her eyes were swollen and her cheeks were red and blotchy. From the looks of things, though, it was her who was primarily upset: Lavender was sitting stiffly upright, and Parvati was bent in towards her, one arm placed over the blonde girl's shoulder in an unmistakable gesture of comfort.

Hermione, for her part, stood as if poised for flight—her body half in, half out of the room. She was uncomfortably aware of the strained silence and of her own uncharitable assessment of the other girls' appearance. She really didn't want to be there, she decided, and she had her mouth open to excuse herself when Lavender spoke again.

"Please, Hermione?" Her voice quavered slightly. "I need to talk to you."

Heavy with unwillingness, Hermione let go of the door handle and stepped fully into the room. With a grimace that hinted at a comforting expression, she lowered herself onto the edge of her own bed and let her satchel swing down onto the floor.

"Hermione!" said Parvati dramatically, lunging forwards and placing a hand on Hermione's knee. "You have to _swear_ that you won't breathe a word of what we tell you to _anybody_!"

Hermione resisted an urge to roll her eyes. The situation was so unexpected that it left her completely wrong-footed.

This had to be about Ron. Surely.

_Lavender doesn't even like me._

The evident tension of the other girls was starting to get to her, though, and an unexpected wave of anxiety clutched at her.

"I swear," she promised, meaning it.

Parvati relaxed her death grip on Hermione's leg and turned her attention back to her best friend. Both young women looked relieved by Hermione's willingness to keep silent, still, neither one of them said anything.

Parvati, decided Hermione, was somewhat overplaying her role of staunch defender and fearless ally.

"So," ventured Hermione after thirty interminably long seconds. "What did you want to talk to me about?"

Parvati paused in the act of patting Lavender's hand reassuringly to give Hermione a reproachful look, but before Parvati could say anything, Lavender quelled her with a glance. It was Lavender who finally spoke.

"I'm pregnant," she announced harshly. Her face crumpled, but she crossed her arms defiantly over her chest.

Hermione's mouth opened, but nothing came out. Her first thought was, _This can't possibly be Ron's fault_, closely followed by, _How could Lavender be so foolish?_

"Before you ask," snapped Lavender, "I'm not so stupid that I fucked up the Barrier Charm nor so dumb that I forgot to do one."

"Okay," replied Hermione slowly, still uncertain as to what to say. Rejecting _What has this got to do with me?_ as inappropriate, she asked, "Who's the father?"

"Really, Hermione!" expostulated Parvati, glaring at Hermione as if she were a troll.

"That's the problem," replied Lavender, looking desolate. "I don't know."

Hermione blinked in shock. For the first time she felt genuinely sorry for Lavender. "You don't remember?" she asked, horrified.

Lavender shook her head. Hermione was cataloguing the possibilities.

"There's a spell," she offered, "that checks whether someone has been Obliviated . . ." She trailed off. _Poor Lavender._

"Can you?" asked Lavender.

Hermione nodded. When Lavender nodded back, grimacing unhappily, Hermione took out her wand. The spell itself wasn't particularly complicated, though the wand movement was fiddly. The fact that it numbered among those she learnt in anticipation of her year on the run only served to underscore how small was the distance between war and peace. Just because the war was over, didn't mean bad things had stopped happening.

_Poor, poor Lavender._

Placing the tip of her wand against Lavender's temple, Hermione cast the diagnostic nonverbally. A nebulous halo of various colours appeared over Lavender's blonde head. For the most part, it glowed in a shifting kaleidoscope of bright tones, but in one place—just behind and above her left ear—there was nothing but a patch of cloudy white.

"Well?" demanded Lavender edgily.

"It's positive," replied Hermione. She felt awful.

"Positive as in good?" asked Parvati hopefully.

"No." Hermione winced in sympathy. "Positive as in she was Obliviated."

"I don't suppose you can tell _what _was erased?" asked Lavender. She held her chin up at a defiant angle, and even though her voice trembled, she managed to hold back the threatened flood of tears.

Hermione shook her head. "I'm so sorry," she said, sinking back onto her bed and clasping her hands tightly. "A trained mediwitch might be able to tell, but even then it's pretty unlikely."

Parvati pulled one of Lavender's hands onto her lap and stroked it. "I don't suppose there was any other point in your life you know you've been Obliviated?"

"If I had, I wouldn't remember, would I?"

There was an edge to Lavender's voice that twisted at Hermione's heart.

"This changes things, though," she offered, grasping at anything that might cast the diagnostic results in a better light. "At least now—if you wanted to—you could end it."

Abortion wasn't a legal option in the wizarding world unless the child was the result of rape or incest. The lack of female reproductive rights had bothered Hermione when she first discovered the situation, but since, as Madam Pomfrey had rightly pointed out, birth control was free and remarkably simple, she'd learnt to live with the logic.

Parvati huffed at the comment. "It's not that easy, Hermione!"

"I never said that it would be easy! No matter what you decide though, Lavender, you have to talk to Madam Pomfrey."

"No!" Lavender leant forward and covered Hermione's hands with her own. "We can't tell anyone! You promised!"

Hermione stared down at Lavender's hand. Her long nails were painted sky blue, and on each nail a delicately drawn butterfly flapped its wings.

"You're going to keep it?" Hermione tried to keep her voice neutral and judgement free. She wasn't entirely successful.

"Of course I'm not! Can you imagine what my life would be like?" Lavender's voice winched up a notch. "I'd have no chance at a Divination apprenticeship! I'd have to quit school! I can't even conceive of telling McGonagall—she'd kill me! To look after a baby from some man who raped me? Of course I'm not going to keep it!"

In a way, it was odd to think of Lavender having planned out a career. Hermione couldn't help but imagine herself stuck in the same situation. She couldn't help imagining the act of rape. It made her feel ill.

"Adoption?"

"No way. I'm not having this baby."

"Then what are you going to do? You have to tell somebody." Hermione turned to Parvati for support, but the other girl's body language and expression made it clear she was firmly on Lavender's side. "If you don't tell Madam Pomfrey," insisted Hermione, "you won't have access to The Potion!"

"To access The Potion legally, I would have to file a formal complaint," responded Lavender fiercely. "There'd be an official investigation. It would be in the papers. My parents would find out." Lavender shook her head. "There's no way I'm doing this the official way."

"But—"

"But, what? I've been Obliviated, Granger! No-one's ever going to know who did it. The whole wizarding world would know all the sordid details about how I lost my virginity and can't even remember. My life would be ruined! No. No way."

Hermione stared at Lavender, speechless. Of course it would be awful, but unless Lavender was prepared to have the baby, she didn't really have another option.

"Maybe they could find out who it was," she replied without much conviction. "The midwitches!" she added, more confidently. "They will be able to work out the date of conception, and from there the Aurors can track your movements! If they catch whomever it was, he'll get twenty years in Azkaban—at least!"

Lavender had slumped back onto her own bed. "They won't find him," she said with finality. Lifting her head, she looked Hermione directly in the eye. "Do you want to know what happened?"

"Yes," replied Hermione, more forcefully than she'd intended. Somehow she'd got herself mixed up in this crazy situation and she couldn't help feeling that she deserved to know the full story.

Lavender sat up straight and tilted her head back to stare at the ceiling for a long moment. She took a deep breath.

"On New Years', Parvati, Padma and I had plans to meet up at a Muggle dance party in London. I didn't exactly have my parents' permission to go, but since they don't even bother to wait up and celebrate, I spiked their evening tea with a low-level sleeping potion, and snuck out of the house on my own. Thing is, I never turned up.

"Parvati just assumed I hadn't managed to get away." Lavender shrugged. "The next thing I remember is waking up the next morning in my own bed: naked and bruised."

"What did you do?" asked Hermione, horrified.

"Nothing," replied Lavender bluntly. "I took a shower and practiced the first aid charms Ginny made us learn in DA."

"But—"

Lavender cut her off with an upheld hand. "You don't understand, Hermione. You haven't met my parents: they would kill me. I don't know how things are with Muggles, but my family are pureblood enough that they'd see it as a failure on my part."

Hermione swallowed her protestations uncomfortably, suddenly hyper-aware of the "Mudblood pride" badge flickering on the lapels of her school robes. She had a pretty good idea of what her parents would do were she to go them and tell them that she'd been sexually abused: her mother would cry and comfort her and recite feminist theories of non-victimisation, all the while telling her how precious and beautiful she was; her father would look grim and rub circles on her back with the flat of his hand. They'd both support her in any and every way they knew how. They certainly wouldn't blame her, though she hoped that it wasn't only because they were Muggles.

Parvati was nodding sanctimoniously as if to confirm Lavender's analysis of the situation.

"I'm sorry," said Hermione finally.

"Thanks." Lavender cocked her head slightly in recognition of Hermione's apology, and despite her tear-swollen face and red, puffy eyes, looked slightly more like her normal self. "Since I can't get The Potion via legal means," she said, "I'm going to have to get it some other way: there's always Knockturn Alley."

"Lavender!" exclaimed Hermione in distress. "You _can't_ go there! If it's not made correctly, The Potion could kill you! There are complicated Arithmantic components of the brewing process that tune The Potion to your specific weight and magical signature! If you take any old black market Potion you could end up killing yourself along with the unwanted foetus!"

"What other choice do I have?" asked Lavender aggressively. "I certainly don't have the Arithmantic and Potioneering skills to do it myself! I guess it's a risk that I'll just have to take!"

Hermione sucked in a sudden breath. She'd been neatly manoeuvred to this point and the knowledge blindsided her.

"It's illegal!" she protested.

"It's a technically legal action, it's just not the authorised method for obtaining the solution," counteracted Lavender. "Do you really trust _the Ministry_ to decide when women get access to The Potion?"

Hermione's head was spinning, but in some tucked away part of her mind, she'd already begun to list the details she'd need to get from Lavender, the calculations she'd need to run, the supplies she'd need to procure.

The supplies.

Sure, she could do the calculations, and she could probably make The Potion. But that didn't solve the problem of where she would get Tansy root. She couldn't exactly ask Snape for a highly restrictive abortifacient with only one known application.

"Lavender," she said warily. "You don't know what you're asking."

"I do, actually," replied Lavender, her mouth twisting as she struggled not to weep. "Look, I know that we've never really been friends—"

_The girl has a gift for understatement_, thought Hermione wryly.

"—but I'm asking you for help. I can't have this child, not under these circumstances, not when I don't know how it happened or even who the other person was. And I can't face the public humiliation. I just can't. I want to have kids one day, but not now, not like this." Lavender paused to scrub at her cheeks with the heels of her hands.

Every Legilimentic instinct that Hermione possessed screamed that Lavender was telling the truth.

"You're the best student in the school, Hermione. I _know_ you could make The Potion perfectly, I just know it. If you don't feel able to under the circumstances, well, that's a different matter."

"Lavender, I—"

For perhaps the umpteenth time that evening, Lavender stopped Hermione before she could speak.

"I'm going to get rid of this baby, Hermione. And I'm not telling the authorities. I think you're the safest option, but if you can't help me, I'll find another way. I'm not prepared to let this destroy my life. Not now; not ever."

Hermione felt completely overwhelmed. Tears prickled at the back of her own eyes, and her chest ached.

"Look," she said when she managed to find her voice again. "I'll think about it. I'll think about it really seriously."

"Thanks." Lavender gave her a curt nod.

Hermione nodded back.

"Just remember," added Parvati, but Lavender took her wrist to get her attention and then shook her head. Parvati trailed off.

It was weird and awkward in the room now that the conversation was so clearly over. As Lavender and Parvati turned away, Hermione pulled her legs up onto her bed and used her wand to close the curtains around her. For a long moment, she stared up at the canopy without moving. Then she dragged her satchel up onto the bed and pulled out quill and parchment.

She always did her best thinking with a pen in her hand.

Hermione didn't manage to wend her way through the dense thickets of ethical deliberation before she fell asleep, and though sleep she did, her dreams were troubled. Heightened, twisted memories merged into nightmare: Hermione was Bellatrix Lestrange, walking down Diagon Alley, with wandless Muggle-borns clutching at her robes and begging for assistance. As the scene unfolded before her, Hermione was wretched and fearful—horrified by the desperate faces and the grasping hands; terrified that the merest hint of compassion would see her cover blown, the game lost, her own wand removed, if not her death. She was incapacitated by fear, torn between the Greater Good and the horror of her own actions.

She couldn't be Hermione, she had to be Bellatrix. She tried to lift her wand to rid herself of the threat to her disguise, but she couldn't. She was too selfish, too frightened. She was failing.

Harry would fail, and all because of her.

She couldn't find the way through, couldn't work out the right thing to do.

The wandless had hold of her now—Muggle-borns like her, but filthy and dispossessed. Their hands were hurting her. They were going to pull her apart.

Why couldn't they see that she was trying to help them? See that blowing them out of her way and stepping over them in the street hurt her far more than it hurt them?

She had to go on; she had to help Harry.

But still she couldn't move. They were going to tear her apart.

She woke with a gasp, her heart pounding, body slick with sweat, and her wand arm so twisted into the sheets that she couldn't move it.

Extricating her arm with a sigh, Hermione felt relieved that she'd remembered to put up Silencing Charms before she went to sleep. Dealing with her nightmares was difficult enough, but dealing with Parvati and Lavender in the aftermath was worse. Once her arm was free, Hermione pulled open the curtains of her bed on one side, just enough that she could turn her head and gaze out the window into the grey light of the pre-dawn grounds. Fumbling for her watch, she confirmed that there was only another twenty minutes or so before she needed to get up.

She spent them pondering her dilemma. Breaking the law for the Greater Good was one thing, breaking the law to save one—oftentimes foolish, almost always irritating—young woman was another thing altogether. Were it Ginny, Hermione acknowledged, she wouldn't be working herself into knots trying to justify the actions: she would just do it.

_Is that what personal morals come down to? Who you count among your friends?_

The thought left Hermione feeling less than impressed with herself. She decided to just get up and use the bathroom before either of the others woke; that way she might be able to duck down to breakfast and avoid having to talk to them. Her plan almost worked.

As Hermione twisted up the last strands of her hair and pinned them into the tight knot she'd formed at the back of her head, Lavender blew open the door with an Alohomora and raced over to the toilet bowl. With little heed for Hermione, Lavender dropped to her knees and heaved up the contents of her stomach.

After only a second of shocked stillness, Hermione leant over and pulled the other girl's hair up out of the way. Conjuring a wet washer, she wiped Lavender's face.

"Thanks," muttered Lavender once she had breath to speak. She didn't meet Hermione's eye.

Hermione squatted back on her heels and rested the small of her back against the vanity. She took a deep breath in through her nose and let it out slowly.

"Lavender," she said. "I'll do it.

* * *

><p>AN: Oh, no! What will happen now? YOU KNOW SHE'S GOING TO STEAL THE TANSY ROOT FROM SNAPE'S STORAGE CUPBOARD, RIGHT? Crazy young woman.

You'd better leave me a review, or . . . or . . . or, I dunno? I'll cry? I'll make Snape have a tanty?


	21. Chapter 20: Inference

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 20: Inference

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Hi! I'm back, again! I did miss you guys, heaps. :)

I got so many comments on the last chapter asking why a Muggle abortion wasn't an option, that I thought I'd address it here: do you remember when Arthur Weasley got bitten by Nagini and the Healer-in-Training experimented with some Muggle treatments (namely, stitches)? It's a canon fact that magical bodies don't always respond well to Muggle medicine, so you're just going to have to take my word for it that a Muggle abortion wasn't going to do the trick here. Even if we can imagine that a pureblood witch, such as Lavender, would have had the necessary paperwork to get access to the NHS. BESIDES, it's my story . . . you gotta go where I take you . . . at my own slow slow slow pace ;)

Now, talking of slow, where was I?

* * *

><p>In the privacy of his own rooms, Severus relived the light-hearted exchange he'd observed between Granger and Weasley. It hurt just as much the second time as it had the first. No matter how he tried to rationalise it—reiterating that she was his student and it wasn't his place to care, or protesting that the gesture surely meant nothing in regard to the immediate present—he was shaken.<p>

They couldn't possibly be trying for a baby while still at school, he told himself. Just because Lily got herself knocked up before most of their peers had managed to recover from their graduation hangovers didn't mean Granger had similarly poor judgement. The Weasleys were fertile, though, and Snape couldn't imagine that Ronald would put a premium on Granger's career. Behind his eyelids, he saw Granger's face superimposed onto Molly's body.

That night, he didn't sleep, and not unusually, he turned to brewing as a solace. The potion he began to brew was labyrinthine in its complexity and so elaborate that it took him three further evenings work just to get it finished. The final product was both priceless and worthless—because only one individual could ever use it. To the right buyer, it might have been worth a fortune.

Severus Snape had made Hermione Granger the safest, most sophisticated, completely and utterly failsafe contraceptive potion known to wizardingkind. One dose was all it took, and the effects would last until the antidote (much cheaper and more easily made) was swallowed.

Once it was done, he put it into his pocket and carried it around, unable to give it to her. He couldn't broach the topic of her sex life without being completely inappropriate; he couldn't give her the potion without revealing his hand. So it stayed where it was, completely and utterly useless despite its potency.

* * *

><p>One evening, not long after Granger left from a Wolfsbane meeting, Severus found Draco skulking about outside his office. There was something about the set of his mouth that made Severus wonder how long he'd been there.<p>

"If you want to talk to me, Draco, you've got five minutes until curfew."

"If you're not busy . . ." he replied diffidently, letting the phrase trail off.

Severus held the door open and gestured him in with a jerk of his head.

"Thanks," said Draco, settling himself into the visitor's chair.

Severus sat down and waited for Draco to begin. It took him a full minute to find the right words.

"My father," he said at last, "thinks I should take a wife."

What a ridiculous, outmoded phrase.

Severus raised one eyebrow. "Are you considering Ginevra Weasley?"

Draco sighed. "Not really, although I implied to Lucius that it was a genuine possibility." Draco shifted in his chair, crossing his legs and then uncrossing them immediately afterwards. "She's very much in love with Harry Potter. I'm just a means to make him realise what an idiot he's being. And it helps to get Lucius off my back."

Severus steepled his fingers against his lower lip and considered the young man before him carefully.

"She and I have what you might call a mutually beneficial arrangement."

Severus almost asked, _Are you in danger of having your heart broken?_ but instead he took a different tack.

"Do you actually desire a wife?"

Draco expelled a noisy breath. "No."

"No, not in general, or no, not in particular?"

"Right now? Neither. But Lucius thinks that a wedding would be good for the Malfoy image. Particularly if I marry someone untainted by Death-Eater associations."

"I'm sure it would be." Severus searched for the right words. "You need not put the Malfoy image ahead of your personal happiness, Draco. You and Jocelyn are at liberty to recreate what it means to be a Malfoy."

Draco did not look cheered.

"I fear that I'm a terrible disappointment to Jocelyn," he said.

Severus stifled an urge to smack the maudlin boy upside the head. "Has she ever said so?" he asked.

"No." Draco shook his head. "But she doesn't understand why I can't move through life with the same explosive energy that she has."

"Few people could." Severus didn't mean the comment as an absolution. The boy would do well to show some backbone and stand up to Lucius, but he'd have to do it his own way, not spitting honesty as Jocelyn would. "Draco," he asked, "what do you want from your life?"

Draco hesitated. "I guess," he said eventually, "I guess I just want to feel something real." He met Severus' eye, and Severus saw a desperation there that worried him. "I want to love someone so deeply that I'd be willing to lose everything, or do anything. But I just feel empty. Everything is surfaces and politics."

"Draco—" Severus broke off, at loss for words. He could tell him exactly how uncomfortable that kind of love was. He could tell him how lucky he was that he didn't feel that way about Ginevra Weasley, or anyone else who was going to leave him. He could tell him that he needed to let himself get over the war before leaping into his future.

"It's okay." Draco stood up abruptly. "Thanks for listening, I feel a little better just having told someone."

"Don't be afraid to make your own decisions, Draco."

Draco had stepped behind the chair he'd been seated in. "That's what Jocelyn says, too—although her exact words were, 'Let Lucius go fuck himself'." He gave Severus a smile that didn't warm his eyes.

"The girl has a way with words."

"Yes." Draco ducked his head. "Goodnight, sir," he said. Then he was gone.

Evidently, Severus had failed both his Malfoy charges since the end of the war. He'd have to do better, one Malfoy at a time.

* * *

><p>It took Severus longer than expected to put the finishing touches to the Spinner's End renovations. From start to finish, the elves took six weeks to replace the bathroom, re-do the plumbing in the kitchen, and to stick an extra loo into a once-tiny closet behind the laundry.<p>

With Hagrid's help, Severus transported a spare Hogwarts' bed from one of the lower dungeons of the castle into the small bedroom upstairs. Minerva, who had authorised the "loan," gifted him with some rather hideous tartan bed hangings. Without hesitation, Severus passed them on to Hagrid, to thank him for his assistance. It seemed like a genius idea in the moment, although Hagrid's effusive thanks and loudly expressed intention to turn the fabric into a kilt left Severus pondering the wisdom of his decision.

By mid-February, everything was done. Uncharacteristically nervous, Severus sent Jocelyn a letter using one of the school owls, inviting her to spend Saturday afternoon with him. He received her acceptance by return mail, and two days later, she was standing in his office, ready to go.

"I hope," he said, his words feeling stiff in his mouth, "that I have not derailed your Valentine's day plans."

Jocelyn laughed. "No, sir," she replied. "Even if the visit to Hogsmeade hadn't been cancelled I wouldn't have had 'Valentine's day' plans."

"Very well. We will be leaving from the Disapparation point," he said.

He saw the question in her eyes, though she merely nodded and stood aside so that he could exit ahead of her. They walked up through the castle in silence. At the Apparation point, Jocelyn took his arm without comment. He pulled her close against his body and tightened his grip on her elbow. Then he twisted them both back into nothingness, and with a sharp crack, they disappeared.

On their reappearance, Jocelyn stumbled slightly, and Severus held her up until she found her footing.

"Bleugh," she said. "Can't say that I'm a big fan of Apparation."

"Come in," he said in reply.

Jocelyn followed him obediently. "It looks different in here," she said, pausing on the threshold.

"Yes."

Jocelyn had visited the house during his post-war convalescence and now she wandered over towards the bookshelves and cast a thoughtful glance over the room as a whole. "It looks cleaner," she commented.

Severus considered delaying until after lunch, but then plunged on regardless.

"Come upstairs," he said. His words came out brusquer than he'd intended.

Severus shifted the copy of Machiavelli just enough to spring open the hidden staircase and gestured Jocelyn up the stairs ahead of him with a jerk of his head. She went without a word, though she shot him a calculating look up under her lashes as she stepped past. At the landing, Severus reached past her and opened the door to the smaller bedroom. Again he sent her before him with a jerk of his head.

"It is definitely cleaner," said Jocelyn. Downstairs she'd struck a nonchalant note that made it clear she'd been teasing him; now her voice was unbalanced by wariness. She crossed her arms and turned her back on the window, but didn't look at Severus. Instead she scrutinised the room, her eyes flickering back and forth along she shelves, and then across to the battered table and chair.

Severus propped himself on the edge of the desk. "Sit," he said, gesturing at the chair.

Jocelyn gave it a long look, and then sat, instead, on the bed. She pulled her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs.

"Jocelyn," said Snape heavily, searching for the right words. "I owe you an apology."

Her eyes lifted immediately to his face. "What for?"

"I have acted like a fool, Jocelyn." _A sad, selfish fuckup_, he wanted to add. She was staring at him with an unreadable, almost furious expression. "To begin with, I never should have let your mother disown you. It was completely and utterly inappropriate—"

"Shut up!" she said loudly, interrupting him. Her legs shot out and she leant forwards with the force of her anger. Severus flinched. If she'd had something in her hands, she might have thrown it. "SHUT UP!" Moving just as violently, Jocelyn covered her own ears with her hands. Her eyes were screwed shut.

Severus was at a loss. He gripped the edge of the table so hard that his hands hurt. His breath came in quick short breaths. They sounded loud in his ears.

Her reaction was unexpected.

An age passed, and neither one of them moved.

"Go away," said Jocelyn, finally breaking the silence.

Severus closed his eyes. "Okay," he said. He pushed up from the table and took the few short steps necessary to leave the room. He shut the door behind him.

In the corridor, he stood without moving. Then he turned around and sat on the hard wooden floor, his back against the wall opposite the bedroom door. There he waited.

Half an hour or so later, when Jocelyn opened the door, he was still there. She looked miserable, and a bit uncertain, though it didn't look as if she'd been crying.

"Can we talk about it?" he asked.

"Yeah." Jocelyn pulled the door shut behind her and then slid down it, so they were facing each other on the floor. Her small feet sat between his two large ones.

"Tell me what I did wrong," he said.

Jocelyn tilted her head back until it touched against the door behind her and cast her eyes up towards the ceiling.

"That day," she said, "when you came to get me from my mother's place, was quite possibly the happiest day of my life."

"Jocelyn . . ." Severus trailed off. His heart pushed painfully against the wall of his chest.

Jocelyn lowered her gaze to his and pulled a wry face. She shrugged one shoulder. "I'm sorry for yelling at you," she said. "I overreacted."

"I wish I could take you away from Lucius," said Severus suddenly, the words escaping in a rush. His hands sat on the floor beside him and gripped tight fists full of his robes.

"Me, too."

They stared at each other for a long moment.

"As your guardian," said Severus, "I could sue for custody, but Lucius were to win . . . then . . ."

"He always wins."

Severus nodded his head once in agreement. His mouth tasted of failure.

"Even when he loses," added Jocelyn. "So what do we do?"

"We have a couple of options." The use of the first person plural felt terrifying and precious. "Firstly, the room—your room, if you want it—is here, it's clean, and you can use it whenever you need to during the holidays; you should never feel trapped at Malfoy Manor."

Jocelyn swallowed. "What if I wanted to stay here all the time? And never go back?"

"I think Lucius is less likely to interfere regarding your whereabouts if you spend the occasional night under his roof." Severus ran both hands back through his hair and tucked it away behind his ears. "I suggest that you make that call on an ongoing basis."

"How would I get here if I needed to come in a hurry? Floo? A Portkey button?"

"This house has been disconnected from the Floo network for a long time. A Portkey would work, but I do have another suggestion that might be better."

Jocelyn looked at him, her head tilted slightly to one side.

"Fawkes," he said. "I have spoken to him about the situation, and, with your agreement, he would be willing to go with you to Malfoy Manor whenever you needed to be there. He would watch over you and, if necessary, he could bring you here—or back to Hogwarts."

Jocelyn's eyebrows moved slowly up her forehead as he spoke. Severus could sense her surprise like a palpable force. "That," she answered with conviction, "would be amazing. Plus it would piss Lucius off."

That it would. Lucius had once been among the small group of people Severus called friends, but the balance had shifted. Severus wasn't likely to forget the treatment that Hermione Granger had met in Lucius' house.

"What else?" asked Jocelyn, with something approaching her old enthusiasm.

"I do still owe you an apology," said Severus. Jocelyn moved as if to expostulate, but he held up one finger and she subsided. "Hear me out," he added. "That day was . . . a gift."

Dumbledore's death had hung over him like a dark shadow. Guilt and shame had clawed at his stomach, and he had been hard pressed to know what was more terrifying: the Dark Lord's potential achievements or Potter's potential failures. The only person who had known the truth of what he had done was Hermione Granger, and she was gone. Jocelyn had made him feel real, true to himself, visible. It had been intoxicating and deeply restorative.

"Because of a selfish desire to keep you close, Jocelyn, I acted recklessly." Severus could tell how hard Jocelyn was listening by the still, held quality of her pose. "I was a fool to think you safely hidden in plain sight. I should have sent you to Bulgaria the moment you left your mother's house. And it wasn't my place to permanently sever the ties between you and your mother. No, _listen_, Jocelyn. I have a whole childhood of rescue fantasies stored up, and—in that moment—I wanted only to rescue you, and to hell with the consequences. I lost sight of the fact that in doing so, I permanently altered your familial structure, without your consent."

"You _asked_ me!"

"I did." Severus bowed his head in agreement. "But you didn't know the long-term ramifications of what I intended, nor were you old enough give legal consent on such a contentious issue."

Jocelyn dropped her head back against the wall behind her and blew out a loud breath, heavy with frustration. "I'm still not old enough," she retorted, "but doesn't my opinion count for something?"

"It counts for a great deal—more, even, than would your opinion under Muggle legislation—"

"I went to see her, you know," said Jocelyn, interrupting his attempt to clarify the finer points of magical law.

Severus was momentarily lost. "Who? Your mother?"

"Yeah." Jocelyn pulled a face. "On Boxing Day."

"And?"

Jocelyn shrugged. "She wasn't very happy to see me. She's got some new guy, and didn't want him to know I existed." Jocelyn ran the edge of her thumbnail along a floorboard. "She's pregnant," she added, slightly too offhand.

Severus' eyebrows rose, but he said nothing. He couldn't think of anything that wasn't fatuous. After a few seconds, Jocelyn sighed loudly and continued.

"Even at Lucius' house, I'm better off than I would have been there. It was only a matter of time before something truly dreadful happened."

"I'm not saying that I would have left you there, just that I shouldn't have—"

"I get it," snapped Jocelyn, interrupting him once again. "But I wouldn't change a single second of that day, no matter what anybody says."

Severus looked at Jocelyn. Her hands were balled into fists and her mouth turned sharply down at the corners. "Jocelyn," he said, as gently as he could.

She dropped her head to her knees and wrapped her arms tightly around her upper body. "I'm not crying," she said fiercely, but she clearly was.

Severus reached forwards and grabbed hold of her ankles. He pulled her slight body across the wooden floor of the corridor until she was pressed up against his chest. He put his arms around her, one hand against the back of her head, the other cradling an elbow; he let her cry.

It was a good ten minutes later that her sobs subsided.

"I think mum's happy about the baby," she said, scrubbing at her cheeks with the heel of her hand. "As long as it's not a freak like me."

"You're not a freak." The words came out harshly.

"To her I am. And to the Purebloods. And—"

"You're not a freak," interrupted Severus, no less harshly.

"It's okay." She sniffed. "I don't really think I am. And I don't really want to be just like everyone else, either." Jocelyn scooted away slightly so that they sat at a more natural distance. "Most of them are too stupid to notice what's happening right in front of their noses."

Severus gave her a long look, his eyebrows pulled sharply together over the bridge of his nose. "Is there anything else you want to talk about?"

Jocelyn laughed—a short, abrupt noise. "What? Apart from the fact that I hate my father, my mother disowned me, and I'm kind of relieved about both of those things?"

"Precisely." Though he'd meant to sound severe, the corner of Severus' mouth twitched up, for underlying Jocelyn's mocking words was the steel with which she usually cut through life, and he knew that things were back on an even keel.

"Yeah, actually. I'd like to say thank you for the room." Jocelyn put one hand on her chest, right above her heart. "I love it," she added, "and it means more to me than I could possibly express."

"You're welcome," said Severus. "What do you want to do about your parents?" he asked after a short moment.

Jocelyn shrugged. "I wish there were some way to keep in touch with my mum, but at the same time, I don't particularly want to see her again."

"You could write her letters."

"Oh, sure." Jocelyn rolled her eyes. "I don't want to think about what might happen to the poor owl who tries delivering to that address!"

"There is a Muggle mailbox at Hogsmeade," noted Severus dryly. "You could use it yourself during Hogsmeade weekends, assuming that the students are ever allowed out of the castle. Certainly I could manage to post something for you if necessary."

Jocelyn pulled her knees in closer to her body. "Huh. Maybe I could get Granger to show me how to knit. Then I could send something for the baby."

Severus raised both eyebrows. "I'm sure you could find a more qualified teacher."

"Come on, Snape, she's not that bad! She made all of those hats and scarves and gloves she's always wearing whenever the weather gets even slightly cold."

Jocelyn's colour was slightly raised, and her eyes skipped away from Severus'. He narrowed his gaze and deliberately stared at her, willing her to meet his eye.

"Fine!" Jocelyn caved. "I kind of like her!" She threw both hands up in the air in a theatrical parody of defeat. "She's smart, and nice, and open-minded, and she smells really good!"

Severus was tempted to throw back his head and laugh.

"I know," she sighed melodramatically, catching something of his mood despite his silence. "She's also undeniably heterosexual, six years older than me, and practically engaged to be married to a very sweet, easy-going, moderately dull, sometimes funny, intellectually dumb-as-dog-shit, Quidditch-playing war hero."

"That was quite a mouthful," noted Snape.

"Well, I'm not blind."

"No," he agreed.

"Aren't you going to say something cutting about my taste in women?"

Severus raised one eyebrow and then pushed himself up off the floor. "You could do a lot worse than Hermione Granger," he said and held out a hand to help Jocelyn up.

She took the proffered hand and pulled on his arm until she was upright.

"There's a pub around the corner that does a great lunch," he said, gesturing down the hall towards the stairs.

"Do they do fish and chips?"

"Indeed, they do."

Severus watched Jocelyn walk ahead of him down the corridor, his eyes on the back of her cropped blond hair. As she reached the top of the stairs, she turned and caught his eye. She smiled, and uncharacteristically, Severus smiled back—not a huge, face-splitting grin by any means, just a small quirk of the corners of his mouth, but a smile nonetheless. The conversation hadn't gone as smoothly, or as terribly, as the various possibilities he'd worried over in advance, but he'd managed it, and Jocelyn was smiling. And the pub did make great fish and chips.

* * *

><p>After his conversation with Jocelyn, Severus felt lighter. Even the students seemed less annoying.<p>

Not infrequently, he found himself thinking about Hooch's words on the tower at Christmas: _"You need to think seriously about whether, a year from now, you want Granger to be a part of your life, or not."_

At the time, it had seemed like a warning, but now, oddly, it seemed like a promise. He could make plans about his future because he had a future. And having talked with Jocelyn, he felt confident that his future could be better than his past. He didn't need to repeat all the same mistakes. He didn't need to keep himself from others like a toxic ingredient, isolated for the safety of everything else. The realisation was liberating.

Yet, that Thursday, only hours before he was due to meet with Granger in his office, Severus made a discovery that pulled the rug out from beneath his metaphorical feet.

Someone had taken Tansy root from the Moste Potente Products cupboard. Not the common _tanacetum vulgare_, but the larger, lumpy _tanacetum perditium_—grown next to Mugglewort and harvested in the dark of the moon. The only known abortifacient that could—under the right conditions—safely separate the magical signatures of mother and magical foetus.

Logically there was only one person it could have been. Resistant to the obvious culprit, Severus ran every diagnostic he could think of—hoping against all evidence that someone had managed to break the wards or slip through without him noticing—but there were only two magical signatures to be found: his own and Granger's.

Severus sank onto the closest stool. He felt dizzy, and for close to a minute he leant forwards to rest his forehead against the edge of the potions bench.

It had to have been Granger. He forced himself to face up to the fact of what she'd stolen, not just that she'd stolen, and his wand hand clutched automatically for the small bottle of contraceptive tucked inside his breast pocket. Severus pulled out the phial and stared at the dark purple highlights in the liquid inside. He placed it, moving slowly and carefully, on the desk before him.

Four nights of his time, now effectively useless.

But it wasn't that which bothered him: it was the hours and days and years of Granger's life that she seemed determined to waste. It was the perfect, shimmering whole of her soul itself, which she was ready to fracture down the centre. How much was she willing to throw away for a quick fuck with her dumb-as-dog-shit, Quidditch playing boyfriend?

Still moving slowly, every muscle in his body tense with barely controlled fury, Severus drew back his hand and deliberately knocked the potion phial off the bench. It fell to the stone floor and shattered. The potion splattered out over the floor.

Severus rose from his seat and stalked out of his office and through into his living quarters. He needed a drink.

* * *

><p>AN: *dusts hands* My work here is done, right? You don't need to know what happens next, do you?


	22. Chapter 21: Revelations

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 21: Revelations

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: 1000 REVIEWS, YOU GUYS! THAT DESERVES A CELEBRATORY CHAPTER POST! So here you are, the excitement of the reviews distracted me from my early morning Saturday housework long enough to finish this. My house is a mess, my grading isn't done, but the chapter is up!

The chapter is dedicated to Pooloslime, for some of the most perceptive reading EVER. And to her/him, and everybody else, enjoy!

* * *

><p>The guilt sat uneasily in Hermione's belly. More than once, she'd toyed with the idea of asking Snape directly for the Tansy root, but she couldn't imagine a scenario in which he would let her have it. And she'd promised Lavender not to tell a soul.<p>

She delayed as much as she dared, calculating and re-calculating the Arithmantic equations. While she didn't have any reason to doubt the accuracy of her mathematics, complex though the equation was, the stress of knowing the risks associated with even the slightest inaccuracy made her especially vigilant. Besides, once the equations were done she had no reason not to steal the tansy and begin. Except for Snape.

Hermione couldn't bear for him to stop talking to her again, she just couldn't. The very idea left her feeling helpless and sick. She wanted to throw her promise back in Lavender's face and to wash her hands of this whole frightening business.

But she couldn't do that, either. Perhaps she was just too used to taking matters into her own hands, perhaps the Ministry's abusive track record was just too recent to be overlooked, perhaps Lavender's panic about public shame and humiliation cut just a little too close to the bone. Whatever the rationale, Hermione couldn't abandon her roommate to the system, no matter how little she actually liked the young woman. Every glimpse of the ugly red scars on Lavender's neck was a reminder of Fenir Greyback and Hermione's lucky escape. Lavender hadn't been so lucky on either account, neither with the werewolf nor with regard to the ever-present shadow of rape that slunk behind every young woman, magical or otherwise.

In the end, Hermione stole the Tansy from Snape's lab. It was the only way she could think of to get her hands on it.

The theft itself was ridiculously easy. Hermione frequently made recourse to the Moste Potente Products cupboard during the sessions spent experimenting with Wolfsbane. All she had needed to do was to time her supply run for a moment in which Snape was clearly occupied. It took only seconds to flip open the Tansy root box and slip some into the pocket of her robe. Despite her thumping heart and the nausea that turned her stomach, Snape didn't notice a thing.

Later that night, safely hidden behind the curtains of her four-poster bed, Hermione extracted the precious, deadly bundle from her pocket and examined it at leisure. It looked like a Jerusalem artichoke—an off white, earthy looking lump of a thing, slightly pink around the edges. It gave Hermione the creeps.

In the hope of settling her nerves, Hermione ran the calculations one last time. The numbers hadn't changed.

There were two crucial, fiddly steps in an otherwise straightforward process. The ingredients for the potion base had to steep for precisely thirty-six hours, fourteen minutes and three seconds, at which point they needed to be strained through a copper sieve, dried by swirling them counter clockwise through a column of warm air, and then pounded into a paste with the help of seven drops of blood (preferably that of the intended user) in a mortar and pestle made of pink marble. Fifty-three minutes after the addition of the blood, the Tansy root had to be grated into the mixture. Peeling it first, however, was key, since the root could only be peeled using a silver dagger, the potioneer had to sing or recite a particular set of phrases in Latin the entire time, and, if peeled too soon, the surface would oxidise, invalidating the process.

Hermione had brewed a handful of more complicated potions, but only in during class itself, and never with someone's life hanging in the balance.

It made sense to schedule the active part of the potion for the middle of the night when Hermione was least likely to be disturbed. Counting back from then, she needed to start the process at around eleven in the morning, and now that she had the Tansy root in hand, she couldn't justify delaying any longer.

At eleven o'clock on Wednesdays, Hermione could usually be found in Professor Vector's office, working on the Arithmancy tables—but not always. If she wasn't there, Vector wouldn't leap to any hasty conclusions. This particular Wednesday, she went instead to the second floor girls' bathroom.

Lavender and Parvati had both been very insistent that she could brew the potion in their dormitory but Hermione didn't think she'd have much chance of pulling off the complicated sections without interruption, or that she could concentrate knowing that Lavender and Parvati were right there. Besides, there was something comforting about breaking the rules in such familiar circumstances.

Moaning Myrtle was easy enough to placate: Hermione took the radical step of approaching her directly and asking for her permission to use a cubicle. In order to secure her privacy, she had to promise to send Harry along to speak with Myrtle, but that was an easy enough promise to make—it didn't involve breaking any laws or potentially killing anyone, after all.

The cubicle itself was far smaller and more cramped than Hermione remembered, but that was easily fixed, too: with a wave of her wand she pushed out the walls and created more space. Then she set up her cauldron over the bowl of the toilet and got to work. Less than twenty minutes later, she was done.

_This step is supposed to be easy_, she reassured herself as she checked and double-checked her work. With a sigh, she had to conclude that she was—for now—finished. There was nothing to do but wait.

Though she would have had plenty of time to head up to Vector's office and get in some work before lunch, Hermione went outside instead.

It was chilly. Though the sun was shining, a biting wind cut through Hermione's robes and made her eyes sting. Heedless of the temperature, however, Hermione walked purposefully through the grounds until she reached the Whomping Willow. There she found a ridge of rock on which to perch and sat herself down just out of reach of the Willow's waving branches.

There was something reassuring about the slow rhythm of their movements, and Hermione pulled her wand from her pocket and rolled it between her fingers. She concentrated on the give of the wood and the intricate carvings with which Ollivander had decorated the handle. She tried not to think about Lavender or the Potion, but she couldn't help thinking about Snape.

She was doing the right thing, wasn't she?

The right thing, perhaps, but in the wrong way.

She stared up at the waving tree and the fact of the theft sat heavy in her gut. She had to tell him, she realised, though to do so right now might be a disaster.

"Afterwards," she whispered. There were tears on her cheeks that stung in the wind. "Once everything is over, I'll tell him. And I'll tell him just how sorry I am."

* * *

><p>By Thursday evening, Hermione's nerves were close to breaking point. If Lavender or Parvati asked her how the potion was going one more time, she was liable to hit them with a full-body bind and leave them hidden behind the curtains of their bed. Not only did she have the crucial steps of the brew hanging over her head, she had to get through a meeting with Snape before she could start.<p>

Not going wasn't really an option. Snape's suspicions would be piqued if she didn't come. He'd be sure to catch her out if she faked illness, and not a single one of her many classes had an assignment due that she might convincingly claim to have fallen behind on. Hermione was so nervous that she seriously considered locking all knowledge of Lavender's predicament and her own theft of the Tansy root deep behind an Occlumantic shield—but there was too much of a risk that she might forget to leave Snape's office in time, or even forget to head to Myrtle's lavatory at all.

Thus it was, that at eight o'clock on Thursday evening, Hermione knocked, as per usual, on Snape's door. There was no answer, which wasn't particularly surprising. More often than not these days, Snape waited for her in his lab. Hermione opened the unlocked door and stepped through.

Snape's office seemed oppressively silent, and Hermione had to tell herself to get a grip.

The hidden door through to Snape's lab was standing open, and Hermione steeled herself to meet her Professor, fortifying her mental defences and taking a deep breath. She let it out in a soft rush of air when she found the lab similarly empty. This was unusual, and Hermione couldn't hold her mounting anxiety in check. The quiet was unnatural.

"Snape?"

Her voice echoed slightly against the stone walls. There was no reply.

It was strange to find the lab open but empty, and it was odd that there were no visible preparations for their meeting: no sign of the Wolfsbane they'd been working on and none of the utensils that were regularly laid out for their use. Fawkes' perch sat empty. Hermione stood just inside the doorway, stock still but for her eyes, and looked carefully around the room.

Snape wasn't one to forget a meeting.

The far door which led to his apartment stood ajar, too, and after a long moment, Hermione picked her way carefully across the room, skirting the stools and the two benches. She had to step over a smashed bottle of potion that had fallen from one corner. The sight gave her pause. It wasn't like Snape to leave such a mess, and Hermione wondered whether something terrible had happened.

Nothing else, though, was out of place. It didn't look like there had been a fight.

Hermione wasn't familiar with anything quite that shade of aubergine and she bent down slightly to take a closer look at the potion. The writing on the bottle caught her eye. From where she stood, only a few letters were visible, but there was still enough to recognise her own name: "ermion."

Hermione straightened abruptly. She tried to think of a plausible explanation for the scene in which she found herself. _Snape was in the lab earlier this evening. He brought a potion to show me—maybe something to do with the Wolfsbane project. The phial fell, and just at that moment, Snape was called into the other room. Perhaps a Floo call. Perhaps he had to attend to someone in the Hospital Wing, or deal with a Slytherin student who needed help. _

Other, more sinister, scenarios presented themselves, but Hermione dismissed them. There was no reason to assume that Snape had been attacked, no reason to think that he'd discovered her crime. She would glance through the open door into his apartments, and if everything there looked calm she would be on her way. She could leave him a note and tell him that she'd been and found him absent. She could go directly up to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom and spend the next few hours calming herself down. Really, it was almost for the best.

Hermione took the few steps that separated her from the apartment door.

"Snape?" she said again, as she leaned around the door without touching it. The word died in her throat.

Her professor sat staring at her, his long limbs sprawled in an armchair, his legs stuck straight out in front of him. Fury radiated from his person. The only part of him that moved was one hand, which was tracing slow circles on the arm of his chair with a half-empty glass of Firewhisky.

Hermione swallowed. After a few seconds, she stood up straight and stepped into the doorway.

Snape looked her up and down.

"Did you take it?" he asked. He sounded belligerent.

"I'm sorry—"

"You're _sorry_?" In one fluid movement, Snape lunged up out of his chair and propelled himself across the room towards Hermione. He abandoned the whisky glass to the arm of his chair, where it slipped over the rounded velvet surface and fell to the ground. The resultant crash made Hermione flinch, though Snape seemed not to notice.

For a long, horrifying second, as he loomed over her, she thought he might hit her, but instead, he grabbed her shoulders and twisted her body to one side. He pushed her, none too gently, up against a mirror.

"Take a good long look at yourself, Granger."

"Professor—" Hermione's mouth was dry. She couldn't find the right words.

"Leave off, Snape," said the mirror peevishly, "You're scaring the young woman."

"You, shut up!" responded Snape, turning the full force of his glare towards his own reflection. "Look!" he hissed, snapping his head back towards Hermione. His face was mere millimetres from her cheek, and she could feel every word he spoke against her skin. "Look!"

Obediently, Hermione turned her eyes to look at herself. A terrified, pale stranger looked back. She wasn't sure what she was supposed to see.

"Did it hurt?" asked Snape. He sounded malicious. "When it tore from your body? When it's little soul, still cradled in your own, was wrenched free, did you feel the wound? Did you feel your own soul as it ripped across the middle?"

Belatedly, Hermione realised the meaning of his initial question. _"Did you take it?"_

"I didn't take it!" she managed to gasp. His grip, already painful, tightened convulsively on her shoulders. "I mean, I took it,"—she clarified—"from the cupboard. But I didn't take it."

The fight went out of Snape, and his body sagged, suddenly limp and heavy against hers. A few seconds later, he straightened and let go of her shoulders.

"I need the Tansy root back, Granger. I can't let you have it."

Hermione wanted to cry. She could feel the tears burning the back of her eyes and throat.

"I can't give it to you," she said, avoiding his eyes. "I need it."

Snape laughed, though there was no mirth in the sound. "I wouldn't let Lily make that mistake, Granger. And I won't let you make it, either."

The reference to Lily left Hermione thrown. _Lily Potter?_ Had Lily Potter asked Snape for an abortion? Her head was spinning.

"What in Merlin's name does Poppy teach you in sex-ed classes? It's not the same as it is for Muggle children! Though the embryo is still months away from personhood, the magic—"

"I know all that, Snape! I know about a child conceived in love and all the rest of it! This isn't a fault in my education!"

"What the Hell is going on, Granger?"

Snape's eyes were boring into hers, and Hermione had to turn her whole body forty-five degrees in order to pull herself out of the hypnotic glare.

"There are certain instances," she said awkwardly, the words uncomfortable in her mouth, "in which The Potion is permitted. I may not have utilised the official channels, but this is not an illegal action."

Several seconds of silence followed her outburst, and in that time, Snape seemed to get taller. His furious expression was replaced with blank neutrality, as if all emotion had been wiped from his face. The silence was deafening and hard like iron. Only then did Hermione realise that from the moment she'd seen him until that point, Snape had been broadcasting his emotions. His fury and anger had been battering her mental defences, whereas now they were back behind a sheer wall of Oclumentic force.

"Who was it, Granger?" His voice was quiet. "Was it Weasley?"

Hermione knew, with absolute, unyielding certainty, that Snape would kill whomever it was. And he thought it was Ron.

"No." She shook her head forcefully. It was her turn to grab at him, and without thinking it through, she found herself with fistfuls of his thick woollen robes. "It wasn't Ron! He would never! Please don't—it wasn't anyone!"

"Tell me, Granger." He sneered down at her, but he sounded gentle. If ice could be gentle.

"It's not for me," she said. "I swear it." Hermione let go of Snape in order to fumble in her pocket, extracting her wand only with difficulty. "I'll swear a wand oath! It wasn't me! It's for . . . a friend. I promised not to tell." Hermione realised that she was crying, and she wiped at her cheek roughly with her free hand. "She needs this potion, Snape. I can't make her go to the Ministry. I can't."

"You're making the potion."

It was a statement more than a question, but Hermione answered anyway. "Yes."

"How far through are you?"

Hermione swallowed. "The potion is steeping. I have to complete the brewing at about midnight."

"_About_ midnight?"

Hermione's wand was already clutched in her hand, and she had only to wave it in a tight clockwise loop to conjure up an old-fashioned timepiece, its ornate copper hands counting down the three hours, thirty-six minutes and forty-eight seconds left with an audible tick.

"Hmph." Snape turned his eyes from the clock face to Hermione's face. She noticed one long finger twitch at his side as if it were tapping in time with her timer. "You did the Arithmantic calculations."

"Yes."

"Where is it?"

Hermione opened her mouth to answer, but bit back her response. "Why?" she asked instead.

Snape sighed and turned away. He pulled out his wand and Banished the broken glass beside his chair.

"Bring it here, Granger," he said finally. "To the lab. I'm going to take you at your word, but I'm not going to let you brew. I'll do it myself."

Hermione's world tilted on its axis. The relief that surged through her left her trembling, her knees weak. She opened her mouth to thank him, but no sound came out. Then she turned and ran, out through the lab and through his office into the hallway. Out in the corridor, she forced herself to slow her steps and seem calm. Her body was awkward, clumsy with the effort at self control, and her head was spinning.

As she entered Moaning Myrtle's bathroom, she caught a glimpse of her own reflection—her white, pale face and her wild, wild hair. Somewhere between the moment she'd arrived in Snape's office and the current one, she'd lost her hair tie and all semblance of orderliness.

Myrtle giggled almost maniacally at Hermione's arrival, before disappearing quickly up the nearest tap. As Hermione extracted her cauldron and brewing supplies from the cubicle, however, Myrtle reappeared.

"Where are you going?" she asked, her voice shrill.

"None of your business." Hermione answered without stopping, reluctant to be drawn into conversation.

"Oooh, so rude!" shrieked Myrtle, her petulance clear. "Send Potter!" she added as Hermione pushed open the outside door. "You promised!"

There was nothing particularly strange about carrying a cauldron down towards the Potions classroom, and the few people Hermione passed in the halls didn't spare her a second glance. She wondered how many people had noted her rather frenzied dash upward; she couldn't remember much beyond the whirlwind of her own emotions.

She found Snape in the lab, Fawkes perched on his shoulder, and a neat array of brewing tools laid out on the main bench. He treated the contents of her cauldron much as he did any other assignment—tilting it, running the potion over the back of a spoon, holding the liquid against the light to gauge the colour. Hermione watched with her hands twisted tightly together.

"You have the results of the Arithmantic calculations?"

The sheet of parchment in Hermione's pocket was worn soft with constant handling. Hermione pulled it free, unfolded it, and then tore the paper cleanly along the central fold, keeping for herself the identifying data that would have told Snape who was to take the potion as clearly as a direct confession. She passed it across.

"I checked them about a hundred times."

Snape glanced up at her for a long second. "I have no qualms about your Arithmantic ability."

Hermione managed a weak laugh. "Just my brewing technique." She didn't really mind; she was so relieved to have the task in Snape's masterful hands.

"You're a perfectly adequate potioneer, Granger." Snape was rolling up his sleeves as he read over her results. "I'd even go so far as to call you 'competent'—"

"High praise."

"Indeed." Snape ducked his head gracefully in acknowledgement. "But with at least one life in the balance, I'd rather do it myself."

"I'd rather you did it, too." Hermione climbed up on a stool and watched Snape as he completed his preparations.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked, a full half hour later. Her eyes hadn't left him in all that time.

"This is a difficult potion."

"That's not what I meant."

"No," said Snape. With a jerk of his head and an encouraging finger, he convinced Fawkes to relocate from his shoulder to the perch. "You want to know why I'm not reporting you to the Ministry for theft of a highly protected substance, or, at the very least, why I'm not confiscating the Tansy and leaving you and your friend to follow standard legal procedure."

"I guess," she replied, her stomach constricting at the thought of what might have been. She turned the situation over in her mind, trying to find the most logical explanation for his behaviour. "I guess the Order couldn't afford for me to stand trial right now. If I were sent to Azkaban, then Harry—"

"_Harry_? Unless Potter is the one who's pregnant, Granger, this has nothing to do with him."

Snape looked disgusted, whether at the mention of Harry or at Hermione's attempt at an explanation, she couldn't tell.

"Last time you caught me doing something illegal," she countered, "you didn't report it because Dumbledore couldn't predict what my absence might mean for Harry."

"Granger." Snape sighed her name in a long, drawn out reproach, but there was no hint of the anger that had flashed up at her mention of Harry.

Snape was lining up the rods and ladles in a precise line, but he stopped and leant on his hands. His head was angled so that his hair hid his eyes from her view.

"You and I have a history," he said quietly, "of trusting each other—even when our actions run against expectations."

His words moved through the surfaces of her body and lodged behind her navel.

"Next time you want something from the supply cupboard," he added, "ask."

"Snape, I—"

He held up a hand and stopped her. "Let's change the subject," he suggested.

Before they changed the topic entirely, there was a question that Hermione was burning to ask. She wondered if she dared.

"What you said before about Lily . . ." Hermione left the words hanging in the air.

"I have very little sympathy for Harry Potter," replied Snape, "but that is one thing no child needs to know."

"So it was Harry."

Snape shot her a look under his eyebrows, but said nothing.

"I won't tell him—or anyone else, either. I swear it."

"Conjure your timepiece; I want to see how long we have."

When the time came, Snape made the potion with precision. Each movement was sure and deft. Hermione watched him work with gratitude, with admiration, and with an achy, melancholy awareness of her impossible, ridiculous desire. She kept replaying his words in her mind, and each time she did so, she felt the same twisting, swooping sensation in her gut. His trust. His help. His concern. The blazing, uncontrollable heat of his anger when he thought she'd taken the potion herself. It all left her feeling . . . loved. Perhaps that was too strong of a word, but she felt safe and cared for. She felt secure on her perch on his lab stool, with him nearby working, and Fawkes clucking occasionally to himself in the background. When the potion was finally done, Hermione felt a terrible regret.

As Snape pipetted the finished potion into a phial, Hermione let out a deep breath and climbed down from her stool. She stepped up to the desk where Snape had worked.

Snape weighed the small bottle in his hand for a long moment, his eyes on her face.

"If there are any warning signs, you must contact Poppy immediately."

Hermione nodded.

"Excessive bleeding—more, that is that one pad in an hour, fever, fainting, vomiting."

Hermione nodded again.

"And if anything goes wrong, anything at all, send your Patronus to me. I'll come immediately."

If it weren't for the heavy potions desk that stood between them, Hermione would have hugged him. Instead, she reached out and took his hand, closing her fingers around his where they gripped the glass bottle of potion. She pulled his hand towards her, feeling the way he stiffened automatically. Then she pressed a kiss to the closest patch of his skin—the web between his fingers and thumb.

"Thank you, Severus Snape," she said, removing the potion from his unresisting fingers.

Hermione left in a hurry, anxious to get the perfectly brewed potion to Lavender as quickly as possible, and keen to put some distance between her and Snape before either of them said something that might spoil the moment they'd shared.

It was late, and though Hermione Disillusioned herself before slipping through the corridors, she saw no-one.

Lavender and Parvati had waited up. They sat on Lavender's bed, knees pulled up to their chests, dark shadows under their eyes. Lavender took a deep breath when Hermione came in.

"Is that it?" asked Parvati. "Did it work?"

"Yes," said Hermione.

Lavender gestured at the mattress, and Hermione sat.

"Here." Hermione held out the phial.

As Lavender took it, she screwed up her nose. She thumbed off the lid. "Well, cheers—"

"Wait!" Parvati held out one hand dramatically. "Hermione, you're _sure_ that the potion is okay?"

"Leave it, Parve. I decided to trust Hermione a while back."

"It's okay." Hermione would have been nervous too, if she had actually brewed the potion herself. "I guarantee that the potion is perfect."

"Hmph. Well, you sound very sure of yourself!" Parvati tossed her dark hair over one shoulder.

"In this instance, I am." Let Parvati think what she liked. Hermione kept her eyes on Lavender.

"Thanks, Hermione. I really appreciate this, you know."

In the background, Parvati made a noise that could have been agreement or scepticism, and Lavender drank her medicine. Her cramping began almost immediately.

All three young women stayed up all night, keeping track of Lavender's bleeding and keeping each other company. It took a long time for Parvati to run out of inane things to say, but eventually even she fell silent.

Come morning, Lavender was exhausted, but otherwise fine. She was no longer pregnant.

* * *

><p>AN: Loved it? Hated it? REVIEW. (Please?) :)


	23. Chapter 22: Pensieve

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 22: Pensieve

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

Many, many thanks for your reviews, my friends. I'm particularly thrilled by the theorising and close reading that the last chapter engendered!

This chapter is for Lo, keep running!

* * *

><p>Severus sat on the couch reading, his shoulders hunched over the book, his long nose pressed close to the page. When she knocked on the door, he jerked his whole body in surprise.<p>

Though he hadn't heard it in years, he'd never quite given up hope that she'd knock like that. Hope that she'd come back, however, warred with paranoia: perhaps she had told the code to Potter, perhaps he was out there with her, or worse, Polyjuiced as her, waiting to play an elaborate practical joke.

She knocked again.

Severus stood up slowly, almost reluctantly. He crept over to the window to peer through the dirty lace shades. She was out there, seemingly alone, her hood pulled back despite the cold, leaving her face on view. He checked that the chain was on, and only then opened the door.

"Hi, Sev."

"_Homenum Revelio_." The spell floated past her without indicating the presence of anyone else.

She glanced over her shoulder at the dark street behind. "Can I come in?" she asked.

"You could be Polyjuiced," replied Severus.

"Please, Sev. It wasn't easy, coming here."

"What happens when you mix Cartusia flowers with Evergreen oil?"

She rolled her eyes. "Nothing. Now let me in."

Severus shut the door and took off the chain; it rattled against the doorframe. He opened the door just enough to let her inside, deliberately standing so that she'd have to brush against him. Once she was in, he locked the door.

Lily had always looked out of place at Spinner's End. Watching her now, she seemed to glow: her hair, her skin, her clothes—everything looked too new, too clean, too perfect for the space.

He stared at her as she glanced around the room. Her eyes lingered on the small changes of the last few years: several extra bookshelves, the marks on the wall where his father's darts prizes had once hung.

"I'm glad you were home," she said, breaking the awkward silence. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't answered the door." Lily had her arms wrapped around herself, her hands gripping her upper arms.

"What do you want, Evans?" He used her last name like a weapon, denying the rapport she kept trying to invoke by calling him 'Sev.'

Instead of answering she reached out and picked up a framed photo of him and his mum. He strode across the room and snatched it from her hand. He put it back on the shelf, face down.

"What do you want, Evans?" he asked again. "You haven't dropped by to see me since 1975 and suddenly you turn up on my doorstep at half-past one in the morning."

"I'm in trouble."

"No shit. I figured it wasn't a social call."

Lily let out an anxious breath. "Can we sit down and talk about this?" she asked.

"No."

After long, lonely years of rejection she was here, in his house, begging _him_ for favours. He was taking a petty, malicious vengeance.

"I need . . . a potion, and you're the only person I could think of to ask."

"What's in it for me?" Severus had his arms crossed and was exploiting every inch of his superior height to look down his nose at her.

"Anything, Sev! I really need your help." Her hands were gripped together now; her knuckles standing out white against her skin.

"Really? You'd suck my cock?"

Lily drew in a sharp breath.

"You wouldn't," she said, but she sounded a little uncertain.

"Oh, there are many, many ways you could repay me for my time." Severus raked his eyes up and down Lily's body.

"Stop it, Severus. I'm pregnant."

It was Severus' turn to be shocked.

"Who's the father?" he asked, managing a casual lilt to his cruelty.

"What do you mean, who's the father? James is! There's no-one else it could be." Lily was outraged enough to get back some of her usual spark.

Severus shrugged. "He must be thrilled."

"He probably would be, though I have no intention of ever telling him."

Severus blinked as the knut dropped.

"You want me to make you The Potion."

Lily sagged with relief that he'd finally understood. "Yes."

Adrenaline drenched his body, leaving him trembling.

"You don't know what you're asking," he said. His thoughts, pinwheeling out of control, mapped out two parallel and incompatible futures: one where he helped Lily tear Potter's child out of her womb, one where he refused. Neither was a future he wanted to live.

"Yes, I do. I know it's a hard potion; I know it's danger—"

"No." He cut her off, furious that she couldn't see she was forcing him to chose between her ruin and his own. "You don't have any idea what you're asking. Where magic is concerned there's a big difference between a child conceived in love"—the word felt like acid in his mouth—"and one conceived with violence. There is a reason that The Potion is restricted! Your magic is twisted up with that of the embryo, too close to extricate without damage."

Ironic, really: this was precisely the kind of situation that the Dark Lord had directed him to seek out and exploit. "_You're a young man of many talents, Severus."—he'd squeezed Severus firmly on the shoulder and Severus had thrilled under the praise—"Someone is bound to ask you for a favour sooner or later. You can trade your potent liquids for some private knowledge."_ And here he was, fucking it up.

"What are you saying?" Lily had gripped hold of the bookcase with one hand. The other was pressed against the hollow at the base of her throat where her pulse throbbed visibly under the pale skin.

Even in her ignorance, she looked beautiful.

"The Potion would do its job," said Severus, "but it would tear apart the very fabric of your soul."

Lily was staring at him, her mouth ajar. "You're serious, aren't you? Why didn't anyone ever tell me this before?"

Severus didn't have to provide an answer.

"Because everybody already knows," she said bitterly. "Everybody raised in a magical household, that is."

Without asking, she sat on the nearest chair.

"What the hell am I going to do?" She covered her face with both hands. "Oh God," she said, her voice muffled. "I don't want to have a baby."

Severus was too angry to have any sympathy for Lily's conundrum. He was furious that Lily could have been so thoughtless, so little prepared, and so, so angry at the personal cost of his honesty and his explanation. Lord Voldemort frequently ransacked the memories of his followers, looking for the merest shadow of disloyalty.

_If he were to see this . . . _

"You should have thought of that before you let your idiot boyfriend take his dick out of his pants and put it in yours."

"He's not an idiot," said Lily. "He's brilliant at Transfiguration—_as you well know_."

For a moment, Severus was reduced to a spluttering rage: the humiliation he'd suffered when Potter saved him from Lupin bubbled through him.

"I suggest you don't let the werewolf babysit," he spat.

The taunt was enough to drive Lily back into contemplation of her own personal crisis. "God, Sev, what am I going to do? I'm twenty years old and I'm going to have a baby. I don't even have any money."

Severus shrugged. "Potter has money."

"Great," Lily's voice dripped sarcasm. "I'll just get married shall I? Set up a nice house somewhere? Let my husband go out to work while I bring up the baby and crochet doilies for the top of the t.v.?" She dropped her head into her hands. "This is a disaster," she muttered.

"Shut up!" Severus was shaking with rage.

He was fighting so hard not to explode into violence. He ached with the tension of not smashing the books down off the shelf, of not pounding his fist into the wall, of not hitting her beautiful mouth to put a stop to her words.

He would not become his father, he would not. Not at any cost. Certainly not in front of Lily.

He half ran across the room to snatch up the photo she'd touched earlier. It was a Muggle print in a cheap frame. The image caught him at the awkward age of ten, and his clothes didn't fit very well. His mother had too much eye shadow on—it made her look like a tart, but it hid the bruises. Severus held the photo up directly in front of Lilly's face.

"No child is a disaster," he ground out. "You want to know what you're going to do? Well, I'm going to tell you." He counted on his fingers. "First, you're going to go back to your idiot boyfriend. Second, you're going to tell him you're pregnant. And third, you're going to tell him how fucking, unbelievably, goddamn HAPPY the news makes you!"

Lily was pressed back in her chair, putting the largest possible distance between her body and his anger.

He was shouting at her.

"You're going to have this child, Lily, and you're going to love it. No-one is ever, _ever_ going to tell this child they weren't wanted: not you, not me, not James Fucking Potter one night when he's drunk and the story slips out. Do I make myself clear?"

"Sev?"

He realised how frightened she looked and he backed up. He cradled the photo to his chest.

"Sev? I'm sorry."

"I think you should go."

"Sev? I—"

"Now, Lily. I think you should go right now."

She swallowed. Slowly, reluctantly, she did as she was told. He stayed where he was, unmoving.

At the door she looked back. She held one hand splayed over her belly.

"I'm sorry for everything, Sev. And I'll never forget what you said. I'll love this kid with every fibre of my being, and I'll make sure that he or she knows it. And, Sev?"

He glared at her.

"Thanks."

It was only after she left, tears of rage and loss dripping down his cheeks, that he thought about the timing.

"When the, the seventh month," he muttered, stumbling towards the kitchen. "July, the _seventh _month." He flipped through the pages on the calendar—a freebie, advertising the chemist on the corner, with thin, cheap pages. His fingers were clumsy with fear. "Fuck. Fuck."

He didn't know enough about babies to know for sure, and if Lord Voldemort didn't kill him, the anxiety and the uncertainty of the next few months just might.

What the hell had he just done?

* * *

><p>Severus emerged from the Pensieve to find that his own cheeks were wet. Gods, but they'd both been so young. Young, stubborn, and lost. He felt so sorry for the both of them.<p>

He checked the clock, wondering how Granger was doing. There had been no sign of her Patronus, and he could only assume that The Potion was working as indicated. He ran through the events of the evening, holding them up to his conscience for size. Logically, he should have felt guilty. He'd lost his temper with a student. He'd well-and-truly stepped beyond a distant professionalism with Granger. He'd brewed a highly restricted and dangerous potion for an unknown recipient, and passed it out not knowing where it would end up. Not least he'd revealed a secret that no-one save Dumbeldore had ever known.

Still, he felt guilty about none of these things. Indeed, he felt strangely calm. He trusted Granger, and if that made him a fool, he would live with the consequences.

He checked the clock again: four-thirty am. In the circumstances, sleep was out of the question. Above all else he wanted to be awake in case she needed him.

Severus decided to walk the halls. There was something reassuring about the silence they sheltered during the wee small hours, something restorative about the feel of the stone floor under his boot heels.

By breakfast he had yet to hear from her and he poured himself a shot of espresso with one eye on the door.

Granger entered shortly afterwards, Brown and Patil trailing along behind. This alone was worthy of note, as were the dark shadows that all three young women had under their eyes. Though the conclusion was obvious, Severus deliberately avoided drawing an inference as Patil solicitously pulled out a chair for Brown and fussed over the teapot. Granger hadn't wanted him to know, and somehow he felt better not voicing a solution, though the raw materials of his observation lay before him.

As Granger found a seat she looked up and caught his eye. Keeping her face impassive she sent him a burst of gratitude so strong and so warm that the room around him reeled. When she blinked and turned her gaze to her breakfast, Severus was left with a pounding heart and trembling hands. He was a fool, he told himself, a crazy fool. He forced himself to eat bacon and to intersperse cutting remarks into the conversation around him. And he made sure to look at the Gryffindor table no more frequently than he did any other.

* * *

><p>Two nights later, as Severus sat in his office grading, there was a knock at his door.<p>

"Come in."

His heart leapt as Granger slipped inside.

"Hi."

He raised one eyebrow. "Hi?"

One side of her mouth lifted in a smile. "I know this isn't our regular meeting time. If you're busy I can come back later."

"Sit," he said, clearing a space before him on the desk with a flourish of his wand.

"Thanks." Granger sat. She still looked tired, and there was a smudge of ink on her right cheek. "I was thinking about what you said the other night."

"Indeed."

"After Dumbledore died, Harry told us that Dumbledore was convinced that you were loyal to the Order because you'd loved his mum." Granger was watching him as she spoke and choosing her words with care. He could see her anticipating that he'd cut her off. "Dumbledore knew, didn't he? This is what he meant."

Snape felt unexpectedly relieved to be having this conversation. After years of not talking, it was almost pleasurable to speak the words aloud.

"Yes."

Granger looked emboldened. "If . . ." she paused, searching for the right words. "If Tom Riddle had known you'd saved Harry, he would have killed you."

"Yes," said Severus again. "Even without the complicating factor of the prophecy, my actions would have placed me in grave danger. The Dark Lord desperately wanted someone in the Order who was beholden to him. Someone who could be made to pass on information in return for dubiously legal magical services. That I could have created such a situation and didn't would have cast serious doubts on my loyalty. From his perspective, the fractured soul, the destruction of a half-blood child, and the hurt it would have caused other members of the Order would have all been significant victories in their own right."

Granger said nothing; she just looked at him with those goddamn eyes.

"For what it's worth, I understand that Lily was very happy to be pregnant once she got over the shock. Certainly no-one can doubt how much she loved Harry."

"She can't have been much older than I am now."

"No," agreed Severus. "I think she was worried that if she had a baby, she'd end up nothing more than a housewife."

Granger pulled a face. "I don't think that's such a crazy thing to be worried about."

Severus had both forearms on the table, and he turned them over so that his palms faced up. He looked down at his phoenix tattoo, obliterating the spot where the Dark Mark had once been.

"When the Dark Lord decided that the prophecy referenced Lily's child, I was terrified. I begged him to spare Lily's life. Then I went to Dumbledore and threw myself on his mercy." He glanced up at Granger, then back down at his arm. "He knew that I had joined the Death Eaters and suspected I was trying to double cross him. I told him everything." He wanted to tell her everything. "I would have done anything to save Lily."

"You agreed to spy for the Order."

"I did. Dumbledore knew he could trust me because my loyalty was the only insurance policy I had. As far as the Dark Lord was concerned, I'd already betrayed him." He took a deep breath and continued, his voice barely above a whisper. "Do you understand what I'm saying, Granger?" He couldn't look at her. "I joined the Order to save myself, not because I thought that I could save the world."

"But you did save the world." He could feel her eyes upon him. She was leaning towards him, against his desk, her hands mere inches from his own. "You didn't just betray him once, Snape, you betrayed him over and over again—at great personal risk."

"I'm not a good man, Granger." He waved one hand aimlessly. "My soul is not just fractured, it's confetti."

"Severus Snape," she said, and his name was a caress. "I have seen your soul. And it is whole. And perfect."

He wanted to believe her. "You don't know what you're talking about."

"I do, actually." Her voice took on the slightly bossy tone with which she recited her lessons. "I've been doing some research and it turns out that the sympathetic magic we share requires our souls to resound. If Tom Riddle had tried to perform our song, it would have shaken him to pieces. You wouldn't be here today if your soul were 'confetti'."

He wanted to hold her. To kiss her. He came very close to saying, "I think you should go," but didn't—because to speak those words aloud was as good as an admission. Severus looked down at his fisted hands; he looked at his tattoo. He was going to get a grip because that was really the only option he had.

He took a deep breath.

He did need her to leave, though, before he made an even bigger fool of himself than he already had.

"Perhaps you could recommend some sources," he said, "and some evening when I'm not swamped with grading I will look them up." He'd managed to sound polite, slightly distant, professorial.

"I'll let you get back to it," said Granger. Clearly she'd caught the change in his voice. She glanced down at her hands for a moment, then back up at his face.

He forced himself to meet her eyes.

"Thank you for talking with me," she said.

He inclined his head.

"I'll see you Wednesday? To work on the Wolfsbane?"

He nodded again.

Granger stood and moved towards the door. As she was about to leave, he spoke her name.

"Granger." It had been on the tip of his tongue to call her, 'Hermione'.

She turned towards him.

"Bring some loose fitting clothes on Wednesday. I think that it's time we started working on your practical defence skills again."

Perhaps she hadn't been the one at risk of rape, but that didn't mean she wouldn't be, sometime in the future. If or when that moment came, she needed to be able to defend herself.

"Yes, sir."

For a second, she looked as if she were going to ask him to elaborate. Instead, she inclined her head, and with that, she left.

* * *

><p>AN: Does that explain things? Make them more confusing? FOR GOD'S SAKE, YOU GUYS, TELL ME HOW YOU FEEL!


	24. Chapter 23: Calculus

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 23: Calculus

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Two quick things: first, for all of you who (quite reasonably) ask for faster updates, I'm going as fast as I can. I also want to warn you that at some point soon, the pace may slow a little. I've been able to maintain an almost-once-a-week schedule because large chunks were drafted in advance. I haven't been producing an entire chapter a week, just a scene or two and some major editing. I'm hoping that the summer vacation will provide me with a couple of weeks to bash out some large rough sections, so it might not prove to be an issue, but please be patient with me! I'm working on this in all of my spare time and sometime at times when I really shouldn't be. This brings me to my second point . . .

reviews.

I know that I beg and nag (and nag and nag) for them, but I can quite honestly say that I wouldn't still be writing this story if it weren't for you all and your kind, generous words. The first two "books" in this trilogy poured out of me during a time in which I was extraordinarily drained (from an intellectual standpoint), possibly depressed, and they served as a kind of writing therapy that turned me back into a functioning human. During this last one, however, I just don't have the time and space to drop everything and write fiction (child, full-time job, partner who needs attention sometimes, you know, that kind of thing). Knowing that there are people out there who care about the story, however, makes me think about it every day. I decided to go ahead and post as I write precisely because I knew that I needed some feedback in order to keep going. Point is, that I really want to say thanks (and DON'T STOP!) because the level of thought and interest that has been demonstrated in the reviews lately makes me wake up in the middle of the night thinking about our favourite JKR creations. I've been working on this story every moment I can, and I love you all so much!

That is all, basically.

This chapter is dedicated to Poetryfreak173, who wrote a dissertation in the reviews that youse should (that's the Australian dialect version of the second person plural) all read for its thoughtfulness, plus there are a couple of responses to her/his thinky thoughts there, too.

And without further ado, here is the chapter (at the end of the last, you might recall, HG had just left SS's office . . .)

* * *

><p>Hermione stood outside Snape's office, somewhat at a loss.<p>

_Move_, she told herself. _Move_.

Unsure of where she was headed, she turned and walked. Around the first corner, she ran into Tracey.

"Granger! What are you doing down here?"

"Hi, Tracey," she replied, ignoring the question with as much grace as she could muster, "I'm feeling really hopeful about the music calculations and the Elder Wand. I was just about to go up to Vector's office and work on the matrix. Do you want to come?"

Thank god she was moving when Tracey found her, not staring—longingly—at Snape's door.

Tracey looked at her watch. "Now? There's less than half an hour until curfew."

"Well, er, Vector works at odd hours. If you don't want to come, that's—"

"No," interrupted Tracey. "I'll come." She set her books on her hip rather decisively and turned around.

As they made their way up through the castle, a steady stream of Slytherins passed them headed the opposite way. Hermione and Tracey attracted curious stares, and Hermione was relieved to have company. Once they reached the upper floors, the tide of students changed, and it was mostly Gryffindors and Ravenclaws, though the quality of the stares was remarkably similar.

Vector didn't bat an eyelid at their arrival. "Coffee?" she asked, as if the meeting were anticipated.

_Who knows?_ wondered Hermione. _Perhaps it was_.

"I've been thinking about souls," Hermione ventured as the brikki began to simmer gently over the flame.

Vector hummed an encouragement without raising her eyes from the coffee pot.

"About how the soul reacts to the vibrations of sympathetic magic. The thing is, the people who cast the spell have to have whole souls—which is fine. Mathematically we haven't coded for that, but since the whole soul would be expressed as a quotient of one, it wouldn't affect the equation. But what about the soul of the wand?"

"Do wands have souls?" asked Tracey. She sounded dubious.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. They certainly seem to have intent; there is some form of awareness in the Elder Wand that acts to save it from harm." She looked to Vector for her opinion.

"The wand chooses the witch," said Vector, slowly and thoughtfully, "or, indeed, the wizard."

Tracey took out her own wand and rolled it on the desk before her with the palm of her hand. "Okay," she said. "I hear what you're getting at. I certainly feel that my wand is alive—the way a stick of wood decidedly is not."

"Right," said Hermione, her pulse quickening with intellectual anticipation, "as do all wands. My wand feels like an extension of myself, but when I used Bellatrix Lestrange's wand, it felt evil. Surely a wand like the Elder wand, which has been wielded for centuries by one dark wizard after another, must be twisted and bent by the uses to which it has been put. Surely the 'soul' of the elder wand—or the 'awareness,' the 'sensibility,' whatever you want to call it—is fractured or broken, much as the souls of the users must have been."

"Mathematically, then—" began Vector, breaking off as she scrabbled for a piece of chalk with one hand and pulled a clean panel of blackboard towards her with the other.

"The quotient for the wand itself needs to be something less than one, but greater than zero," said Tracey, completing the thought.

"Exactly," said Hermione. "And if it is, then the right kind of sympathetic magic should be able to tear the wand apart through the sheer force of the musical and magical vibrations. Which is exactly what we're hoping might happen."

"Love," whispered Vector, her eyes and hands busy with the new calculation unfolding across the board. She paused for a moment. "The wand will be physically torn asunder by love, just like Tom Riddle's soul was torn apart by the force of Lily Potter's love for her son."

"Because both the wand and You Know Who had damaged souls." Tracey still had her wand out and for a second she leant her head against her closed fist. "You know, Granger," she said, grudgingly, "that's a pretty brilliant idea."

Five-and-a-half hours later, however, they remained stuck. They were definitely closer, but the calculation refused to solve.

Hermione was exhausted. The adrenaline rush of delighted discovery had long since evaporated, and she sat, head bowed, her hands buried in her hair. Though she stared at the equation, her mind was on her conversation with Snape.

He'd said that he joined the Order to save himself. He'd said it as if it were a shameful confession.

_But he's wrong. That just goes to show that he was _already_ on the side of light. Even when there was _nothing in it_ for him, he saved Lily. He saved Harry._

"I should have told him that." Only as the words left her mouth did she realise she'd spoken aloud.

Vector laid a reassuring hand on her back. "I think it's time we called it a night," she said gently, without commenting on Hermione's odd outburst.

Tracey sighed. "It's like we're trying to play rock-paper-scissors except that nobody told us what the third term is: every round is a draw because we've only two options."

Hermione felt Vector's hand tighten where it lay on her shoulder. The older woman muttered softly in a language Hermione didn't understand.

"Three!" Vector added in English. "That's it! Every single node in the matrix has been articulated through the number three!"

Vector waved her wand, shooting forth a galaxy of glowing runes—each representing one of the actors in the mammoth equation set she'd developed to model the long conflict. The triple-level derivative that she initiated sent the runes cartwheeling through the room, colliding and combining as they went, always in sets of three. Hermione caught sight of her own rune, spinning in lockstep with Harry and Ron before splitting off to spin with Snape and Dumbledore, Snape and Vector, Vector and Tracey. She looked for Snape again, only to see him link up to Dumbledore and Voldemort, Voldemort and Harry, Harry and Lily, Lily and James.

"We've been operating under the assumption that the magic in question would be performed by two people."

Hermione pressed her hand against her breast bone. She felt a dislocating pain through her chest and realised that it was jealousy. She'd assumed that the singing would be done by her and Snape. She could see where Vector was headed and—selfishly, ridiculously—she wanted the revelation to be wrong.

Vector scribbled a third human term into the equation, and all three women watched as the equation shimmered and solved. Under the force of sympathetic magic, three humans and one wand transferred over the equals sign, dissolving the wand into nothing and leaving behind the three human singers—whole and unharmed.

"Oh," said Hermione and dropped her head onto the desk.

"Sweet Jesus in a manger," swore Tracey beside her, surprise bringing out a Muggle inheritance that Hermione had all but forgotten. "But who are they?"

"That's the question, now, isn't it?" Vector was newly invigorated. "Let's see . . ."

Hermoine could hear the chalk skittering across the surface of the board as Vector scribbled further possibilities; she didn't move.

"Well, that works," said Tracey, "but only for two. We still don't know who the third person is."

"It does explain why we were so close before, though, because all of our calculations virtually assumed that Severus and Hermione would be the ones singing."

Hermione forced herself to raise her head and look at the board. Vector had substituted the runes representing "Snape" and "Hermione" for two of the generic human actors in the equation, without destroying the solution.

_What the hell is wrong with me? I should be ecstatic right now, and instead I'm bitterly disappointed._

"What do we do now?" she asked. To her ears, her own voice sounded hollow.

Vector laughed. "First, we sleep—or," she added, glancing up at the clock above the door, "eat breakfast. Or both. Later we'll call an order meeting, and later still we'll work out how to solve this for the final variable."

"Shouldn't we solve that first?" asked Tracey.

Vector shrugged. "Off the top of my head I can think of several—horrifically complicated—methods by which we could predict the most likely answers. Given the circumstances it might be faster using trial and error."

"Substitute in likely possibilities and see if any work?"

"Right, Tracey. If it doesn't turn out to be one of the current Order members, though, we'll have to resort to one of the more sophisticated methods."

Hermione pressed the pads of her fingers into her eyes. "It's going to work," she said aloud.

_That's the important thing. And don't you forget it._

"It is both possible and probable that it will work," replied Vector gently.

Hermione found the teacherly words unexpectedly reassuring.

"Okay," she said, seeking to reassure herself. "Okay."

"You were right," said Tracey. "You should be proud of yourself."

"I, er . . ." Hermione groped for a graceful reply. "I think I will be once I've had some sleep."

"You should both be proud of yourselves," said Vector. Reaching out a hand to each of them. "It took all three of us to solve the equation."

"Three of us," noted Tracey, pulling a wry expression.

Hermione looked up at the clock. She had class in less than an hour and a half, and she felt dreadful.

"Breakfast?" asked Tracey.

Hermione nodded, gathering up her quills and paper and stuffing them into her satchel. Vector waved them both away, professing her intention to sleep for a few hours before her schedule began. Hermione and Tracey walked down to the Great Hall together. They paused, slightly awkwardly, just inside the doors.

"You're welcome to eat at the Slytherin table," said Tracey.

Her voice was neutral, but the sentiment was so unexpected that it snapped Hermione out of her exhausted brooding.

"I'd like that," she said, searching Tracey's face for any indication of how to react.

In true Slytherin style, Tracey's body language gave nothing away, and Hermione followed her over to the "wrong" side of the room in some bemusement.

"The room looks different from this angle," she joked as she sat down, glancing around.

"Merlin, Hermione! Where have you _been_?" Ron appeared unexpectedly, interrupting whatever response Tracey might have made to Hermione's weak sally.

"What happened to _you_?" asked Hermione, suddenly worried. Ron looked terrible: one eye was swollen closed and shaded in a deep purple blue, and he clearly hadn't shaved. He looked as if he hadn't slept, either. Even before she'd finished the question Hermione had extracted her beaded bag from an inside pocket and was groping inside.

"This is nothing," he said, batting away the proffered jar of Black-Eye Cream she'd long ago inherited from the twins. "Come on, Hermione, I need to talk to you—let's go." He had hold of her robes and pulled at her inexorably.

"Ron!" she expostulated. She pulled an apologetic face at Tracey. "Can you give me a minute?"

Ron seemed to notice Tracey for the first time, and then—almost comically—started as he realised where Hermione was sitting. "Merlin, Hermione! You can't sit here! We have to go!"

He was pulling even harder, and Hermione gave the plates of food a wistful glance. She hadn't realised how hungry she was until the opportunity to eat breakfast was snatched away.

"You should take some food," said Tracey, waving a hand to show that she excused Hermione from the awkward situation.

"Good thinking," said Ron and abruptly dropped Hermione's robes in order to grab two plates. He loaded them each with more breakfast than Hermione typically ate in a whole week. "Let's go!" he said when he was done, both hands laden down and his whole body leaning towards the exit in entreaty.

"Coming, Ron," sighed Hermione, standing up and shouldering her satchel. "See you round, Tracey."

"Sure." Tracey nodded, and Hermione caught the hint of a smile.

Hermione hurried to catch up with her bruised and battered boyfriend. "Where are we going?" she asked, surprised when he headed out into the grounds rather than up towards Gryffindor tower.

"Out . . . anywhere. We've just got to get somewhere that no-one will hear us."

Ron walked so quickly that Hermione had to jog in order to keep up with his long legs. He let off a nervous energy, alternately staring rather blankly forwards and checking over his shoulder to be sure that no-one was following. When he headed past the Whomping Willow, seemingly headed for the Forbidden Forest, Hermione put her foot down.

"Here," she said, matching action to word and sitting on her favourite rock. "Sit," she added, pointing at the stone beside her.

With an apprehensive glance over the deserted grounds, Ron sat.

"Give me that plate." Hermione took the closest dish from Ron's unresisting grasp and, since neither one of them had brought cutlery, conjured a fork. As her hand closed around her wand, she cast a fierce, grateful glance at the Whomping Willow.

Somewhere between the Greenhouses and the Great Lawn, she'd decided that Ron's crisis was of a personal nature. She felt suddenly happy to be sitting here, of all places, with the weak Spring sunlight shining on her face, and happy beyond words to be using her own, perfect wand rather than any other.

The steak—not her standard breakfast fare—was delicious, and she made a mental note to eat the muesli less frequently.

"Are you going to tell me what's going on?" she asked around her second or third mouthful.

Ron hadn't yet eaten anything. At her question, he startled, and once again looked over his shoulder.

Hermione swallowed with some difficulty. "_Muffliato_."

"Thanks." Ron opened and then shut his mouth. "There's no easy way to say this," he said.

"Just blurt it out."

"Right." He ran a hand down his face, wincing as he touched his swollen eye. He took a moment to poke at it, gently.

With her mouth full of food, Hermione picked up her wand and Summoned the Black Eye cream from her bag. While she chewed, and he sat there, still not explaining things, she dabbed a generous amount of it all around the afflicted eye.

"Go on, Ron, spit it out," she said, punctuating her encouragement with another mouthful of food. Two sleepless nights in the last three days had left her very, very hungry. "Total honesty, remember?"

"Right, okay. I—" He broke off. He took a deep breath, then a second. "I kissed Malfoy."

Hermione nearly choked.

"Or, he kissed me, I dunno which."

She managed to gasp in a breath. "Draco?" she spluttered. "Ok. That, I was not expecting! No wonder you're sporting a black eye!"

"Actually, I think the black eye came first."

"You," she said, pointing at him with her fork, "start at the beginning."

The confession begun, Ron seemed to notice the food in front of him for the first time. "Where'd you get that fork?" he asked.

Hermione procured him a fork with the same swish and flick she'd used to provide her own, and Ron put it to immediate use.

"It started because I came down to the dungeon looking for you," he said around a mouthful. "I figured you were in Snape's office, so I was hanging about in the corridor outside."

"I was with Snape, early on in the evening. What was so important that you couldn't just wait in the common room?"

"I needed to talk to you about Neville, and when you didn't get back before curfew I thought I'd come and find you."

"About Neville? This doesn't sound like the start to me, Ron. You need to rewind further."

"Oh, Merlin," said Ron, holding one hand to his head, "everything is a complete mess."

He looked comical, with the fork in his hand sticking out at an odd angle and the remnants of the Black Eye cream still smeared over his now-healed face.

"Ron: Neville. I want all the details."

"Right, Neville. Merlin's pants in a sack, Hermione, but it seems inconsequential after—you know—everything else that happened last night."

Hermione could only hope that she soon would know.

"I guess you could say we had a moment." Ron groped for words. "We were sitting in the common room after Quidditch practice, I was beating Harry at chess—as per usual—and Seamus was building a tower with the Snap cards. Neville was kind of reading a Herbology book, kind of hanging out."

"And?"

"And the Exploding Snap cards exploded."

"That was your 'moment'?"

"No, but they were loud. Pretty much every card must've snapped at once, I reckon, and they blew up right in my face. Everyone jumped. And Neville . . . Neville was really startled. He kind of grabbed me—as if to protect me. Then he was really embarrassed and went up to the room in a big hurry."

"Okay."

"I'm not explaining things very well," said Ron, "but there was something about the way he took hold of me—"

"Did you go up after him and see if he was okay?"

"I was going to, but then Harry said he'd go. Said he'd nearly grabbed at me himself and so he knew how Neville felt. I didn't want to go up with Harry there, and I couldn't go by myself without making a scene. That's when I went looking for you."

"What do you think Harry meant, that he knew how Neville felt?"

"Well, I know what Harry meant: he meant that we're all jumpy after the last few years. But I just don't know if that is what Neville was thinking. It felt different, Hermione. It felt . . . personal." Ron had inhaled the mound of breakfast and he put his empty plate down on the ground beside him. "Perhaps I'm reading too much into it."

"I hope not." Hermione watched Ron reach up and prod at his now-healed eye. "Then what?" she prompted. "This is far from the end."

"Right," said Ron. "So there I was, skulking about near Snape's office, when who should emerge but Malfoy? He wanted to know what I was doing, obviously, and I didn't want to tell him. You remember we had a fight that day when you went off with Jocelyn, right? Well it was kind of like that. I think he shoved me first, and then I pushed him back. Someone tripped and then we were on the ground, wrestling. He was definitely on top when he kissed me."

Hermione shook her head in disbelief. "Then what happened?"

"Well . . ." Ron blushed. "It wasn't what you would call a short kiss."

Hermione raised her eyebrows at his awkward expression. "What would you call it, then?"

Ron's blush deepened. "Well, he was on top of me . . . I mean," he seemed to be struggling for the right words, "we had our clothes on, but . . ."

"I think the word you're looking for is frottage," said Hermione, trying and failing to conceal a smirk.

"I have no idea what that means."

"Non-penetrative sexual gratification, achieved by rubbing the genitals against something or someone."

"Right." Ron looked mortified but he nodded. "That was pretty much it."

Hermione was fascinated. "And, then?"

Ron shrugged. "Then, nothing. As he got up he grabbed my face and kind of squashed it into the floor. He said, 'I hate you so much, Weasel," and then left."

"Wow." Hermione blinked. After a moment she asked, "Are you okay?"

Ron thought for a moment, taking her question seriously. "I think so," he said finally. He added, "I'd do it again."

"Be careful," said Hermione.

"In this context, I don't even know what that means."

"It means, make sure you know what you're getting in for and what you want to get out of it. There's Neville and there's Draco," she wanted to add, and there's me, but she didn't. "I don't want to see any of you getting hurt."

"It's funny," said Ron, "because when I think about kissing Neville—which, you know, I've thought about a fair bit—it's always very gentle, very . . . tender, I guess. But kissing Draco was like a Quidditch match. It was fast and hard and violent, but it also felt more real, more alive than anything else I've ever done."

"As I said, be careful," said Hermione. "Maybe you guys need a safeword."

"Huh, maybe." Ron stared off for a long moment, his eyes on the Whomping Willow but his mind clearly elsewhere. "It was rough and it was angry, but it also felt safe. This probably sounds weird, but while I was trying to hurt him, and I know he was definitely trying to hurt me, he wasn't trying to kill me."

"I would hope not."

"No, listen, during the whole of last year, people _were_ trying to kill us. The Battle of Hogwarts was violent in a horrifying, terrible way. This was different, it was about my body and his. It was completely different."

Hermione leant sideways and rested her head on Ron's shoulder. It felt so good to hear him actually talk about everything that had happened, even if he was doing so because of weirdly violent sex play with Draco.

"I love you so much, Ronald Weasley," she said.

Ron laughed. "I guess that's why you're my girlfriend, and Draco Malfoy isn't."

"That'd be it," she agreed.

From across the Great Lawn Hermione heard the clock tower chiming the hour.

"We'd better go," she said. "I've got to get up to the dorm and get my books before class."

With a grunt of agreement, Ron levered himself up and then extended a hand to pull her to her feet.

"Where were you all night?" he asked suddenly during the walk back.

"With Vector and Tracey. We had a kind of breakthrough with the matrix."

"Really?"

"Yeah." Hermione smiled. At the prospect of telling Ron, her disappointment about the new calculations evaporated. She felt proud of the new information. "We figured out that with three singers we can destroy the wand."

"Destroy it? For sure? Merlin's balls, Hermione, that's fantastic!"

"Yeah," she said again. She grinned. "It's not bad at all."

* * *

><p>That Wednesday, as directed, Hermione turned up in exercise clothes for her meeting with Snape. His eyes scanned her from head to foot when she arrived.<p>

"Very well," he said. "Let us transfer to the Room of Requirement."

They walked up through the corridors in silence. Once Snape had stalked past the bare wall three times, the door itself appeared, opening on a room that combined the gym they'd once worked in with the room of lost and broken things.

"Perfect," said Snape, rubbing his hands together. "Leave your robes, and your bag by the door; give your wand to me."

Hermione surrendered her wand with some reluctance.

"Today we begin to study wandless magic." Snape had his hands behind his back and was employing his best teacher voice. "The subject requires extreme concentration and the difficult ability to focus the natural magic of the body unaided.

"In general there are two approaches to the subject. Utilising the first, the student attempts to do a tiny task without a wand, for example lifting a feather. The drawback is that wandless magic itself and fine mental control are required simultaneously. Utilising the second approach, the student attempts to do a large task without a wand. While a large amount of magical energy is required, the precise control required for a smaller task is not necessary."

Hermione nodded her understanding. She felt nervous.

"This is what we shall do: you, Granger, are to make your way into the maze." He waved his hand at the piles of junk before them. "I will come after you, armed with my wand. I will attack you. Your task is to survive."

"Okay." Hermione now felt very nervous. "Do you have any advice?"

"Run," he said. "Hide. But try to gather your magic and fight back. Feel free to shout spells aloud if that seems to help. Use any means you can think of to stop me from hurting you. And believe me, if you fail, it will hurt." He glanced at his watch. "I'll give you two minutes and thirty-seven seconds head start."

"Two minutes, thirty-seven seconds?" Hermione was wrong-footed by the odd number.

"Two minutes twenty-four and counting," he replied.

Hermione turned towards the maze and ran.

Even before she disappeared between the walls of junk, it had ceased to feel like an exercise. Hermione's hands felt clammy and her heart was hammering.

Though she knew it was Snape—and though she trusted him more, perhaps, than anyone else she knew—Hermione had too much of a history of running from horrifically dangerous situations. The maze triggered memories of the Final Battle, and over the panting of her own breath and the sounds of Snape in pursuit, she thought she could hear the hissing roar of Fiendfyre.

Hermione scrambled, she dodged, she squeezed herself through tiny openings. As she jumped and ran and hid, she tried to grab hold of her magic. She could feel it, she could reach into it, but without her wand, she couldn't manage to grip it. It slipped through her fingers like water, like air.

She tried to hide, but Snape hunted her out with a _hominem revelio_. As he got closer and closer, she narrowly avoided a Cutting Curse, twisting behind a pile of chairs only to find herself in a dead end. Snape was right behind her and she spun on her heel to meet his gaze. His wand was pointed directly at her.

Reaching behind her she grabbed blindly at the piles of junk and threw anything she could grab at him. She shouted spells but none of them worked. She reached for her magic, fruitlessly. Still he approached.

"_Avada_—"

The word alone sounded like a punch in the gut.

It felt like betrayal.

Hermione Granger blew up the room.

* * *

><p>AN: Does that qualify as a cliffhanger? I'm never sure. ;) Your review will aid in the establishment of world peace chez my living room, oh, yes, it will . . .


	25. Chapter 24: Repercussions

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 24: Repercussions

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Here it is: 7500+ of delicious baked goods! (If you squint, Steggie, you'll see the scones.)

Thank you all so, so, so much for the reviews on the last chapter. Under their encouragement I beat this chapter into submission, graded two sets of papers, met with about 1,000,000 students, cleaned my house to within an inch of its life, wrote a final exam, did some seriously good and necessary work on a piece of writing that was due in February, and wrote President Obama a memo about how to fix the higher education crisis (it's possible I'm joking about this last one). I also attempted to institute a new regime in which I slept a full 8 hours a night and drank less coffee. Unfortunately this failed, but I do not put the blame at your door! :) Please keep it up, I could do with as much encouragement as possible to get through the next few weeks!

For those of you in school (whichever side of the desk you're on), good luck over the next few weeks! For those of you who are not, good luck anyway.

This chapter is for Ayame Nekura.

* * *

><p>Severus rounded the corner to find Granger backed into a dead end. Her eyes were wide with exertion, her hair was wild. Reaching backwards, she grabbed at the walls of detritus, hurling half of a chair and a brass bowl in his direction.<p>

"Oppungo!" she shouted uselessly. "Defodio!"

With a negligent gesture of his wand, Severus sent her missiles arcing past him. From just meters away, he pointed his wand at her chest. He tried his last card.

"Avada—" he said.

The room around him exploded. Only a powerful shield charm allowed him to remain on his feet, uninjured, amid the rubble of the maze. As the dust settled, he saw Granger, streaked with soot and fallen to her knees. _No-one, but no-one managed so well on a first attempt._ Severus was elated. He was tempted to spin her into the air, but settled for a more characteristic sneer and a nonchalant gesture at the destruction surrounding them. He said, "A passable first attempt."

Granger stared at him, wide eyed.

Severus wondered whether she could stand. After such a dramatic display her magical reserves would be exhausted; he should get her to Poppy.

Severus moved quickly to cross the space between them, only to see Granger draw away.

He pulled up short.

He had known that she would be angry with him. That was to be expected. He had thought himself prepared for her fury. But the shocked, lost look on her face unmoored him.

He wanted her to look around, to see what she had just done. Instead, his strong, unbreakable Hermione was crying. Silent tears spilled from her eyes, leaving dusty streaks down both sides of her face.

_Under what circumstances does the end justify the means?_

He tried to swallow but his heart was in the way. She was looking at him as if . . . as if someone she trusted had just chased her through a maze and then hit her with a killing curse.

_And what if the end is this?_

Severus lowered himself to his knees. He held out his hand, palms out—in an instinctive, useless gesture of non-confrontation. He tried to find the right words.

"I deserve for you to be very, very angry at me right now, Granger."

She didn't move.

He said, "I deliberately put you in a situation that was designed to terrify you. I pushed you as far as I could." He paused, searching her face for some response: nothing. "Look," he said, gesturing a second time at the room—she flinched, and her movement twisted painfully inside his chest—"what you have achieved here is astonishing."

Hermione Granger was hurting, and it was his fault.

"I didn't cast that spell, Granger. I wouldn't have, couldn't have. I just said it."

He had taken it for granted that she would understand his intention. He had taken it for granted that she would forgive him.

How wrong he was.

Hermione Granger was going to walk out of his life. She wouldn't come visit him in his lab and work on the Wolfsbane. She wouldn't write impossible, fascinating papers or press him to support his instincts with research. She wouldn't save him, or lecture him, or let him help her save the world. She would finish the semester. And then she'd be gone.

He'd lost her.

"Tell me what I need to do, Granger," he whispered.

When she finally spoke, her words terrified him both for their content and for what she avoided. She said: "I don't feel very well."

"We need to get you to Poppy—as quickly as we can." He assessed her posture, the slight tremble in her hands, the angle of her head. "I'm worried that you won't be able to walk."

"No," said Granger softly, "I don't think I can."

"I could Levitate you, or I could carry you."

"No magic." The words tumbled out. Her lashes were wet.

Severus took a deep breath. He stood, and then bent to lift her. It would have been easier had she raised her arms or wrapped them around his neck, but she didn't. Instead she covered her face.

The force of Granger's magic had reduced the once towering maze to dust, and Snape was able to walk directly towards the door, his boot heels crunching over the scorched floor. The Room of Requirement, sensing their need, opened the door as they approached and ejected them into the corridor not far from the Hospital Ward.

He was painfully, guiltily aware that even in such circumstances, there was a part of his brain cataloguing the weight of her in his arms, the feel of her body against his, her hair on his face. He pushed open one of the heavy doors with his shoulder, and edged Hermione feet first into the room.

Poppy noticed them at once.

"Hermione!" she exclaimed, jogging towards them in concern. She had her wand out and was performing diagnostics even before she reached them. "What happened?"

"Snape scared me witless," replied Granger, as he lowered her into the nearest bed.

"Snape?" Poppy was visibly taken aback. "_Severus_ did this?"

"It was a teaching exercise," he said stiffly.

"And what? You nearly killed her."

He could hear the reproof in her voice and the criticism stung his already lacerated conscience.

"Perhaps you haven't noticed, Poppy, but there are people out there who _are_ trying to kill her. I, on the other hand, am trying to teach her how to defend herself!"

Poppy ignored his outburst.

"Make yourself useful, will you?" she said, without lifting her eyes from the scrolling display of medicinal information her wand had conjured about Granger. "Go to the supply cupboard and bring me one each of every kind of muscular balm you can find."

Severus growled his annoyance, but he went without hesitation. Since he stocked these cupboards himself he knew his way around them almost as well as he did those of the Potions' classroom. He pulled down the required jars and took them back to Poppy.

"Now, Hermione," she was asking as he approached, "where is your wand?"

"Snape has it."

"At least you're doing something right," sniffed Poppy.

After unloading the jars he held onto the nightstand, Severus extricated Granger's wand from his pocket. He would have put it into Granger's waiting palm, but Poppy reached out and intercepted the transfer.

"No," she said.

"Why not?" asked Granger, visibly bothered. "I want my wand."

"I'm afraid you're not going to be doing any magic for at least a week, if not much longer. And it will be easier for you to abide by that limitation without your wand lying around, begging to be used."

"A _week_?!" Granger looked horrified. She wrung her hands. "Please, if I promise not to use it, could I keep it under my pillow?"

"Look," said Poppy, and though her tone hadn't changed, Severus could tell from the angle of her shoulders that she'd relented somewhat, "this here is a measure of your resting magic. It's an approximation, of course, but it should typically read at 100%." The mediglyph she'd conjured was a bluebell coloured pie-chart, and the level read at 14%. "I'll give you your wand back once the levels reach 50%—on the condition that you don't use it before 96%."

The fight went out of Granger. She dropped back on her pillow and laid her forearm over her eyes. Poppy pulled a sympathetic face and turned her attention to the balm Severus had fetched.

"What have we got here? Tiger balm, of course, and Phoenix, . . . what is the core of your wand, dear?"

"Gryphon feather," said Granger, her voice somewhat muffled.

"Really? What a shame we don't have Gryphon balm—haven't managed to get hold of any in years. Well then . . ." Poppy selected three jars out of the half dozen or so he found in the cupboard. "Hold out your arms and close your eyes."

Granger did as she was bid and Poppy spread a tiny amount from each jar into the crook of her elbows.

"Tell me, Hermione, which one of these feels the best?"

"The second," she replied without hesitation, replacing her arm across her face.

"Huh. The Phoenix balm it is. Wonderful." Poppy placed the other two jars back on the nightstand and then passed the Phoenix balm to Severus. "Here you go," she said.

He looked at it blankly.

"You got her into this situation, Severus, now get her out of it."

"No," he said, as realisation dawned. He tried to pass the jar back but Poppy refused to take it. "No," he said again, putting the jar down on the side table in frustration. For good measure he put his hands behind his back. "This is completely inappropriate."

"What is going on?" asked Granger. She was watching them warily from underneath her wrist.

It was Poppy who explained.

"With rest and care, Hermione, your magic will return—all by itself—but the process takes time. Sometimes a long time. Sympathetic touch has been demonstrated to speed the process considerably, particularly when coupled with a balm targeted at muscular and magical response.

"To some extent, any kind of skin contact with a friend or well-wisher would work—and over the next few days I would encourage you to hold hands with any of your friends who come to visit. Clinically, however, a specific massage treatment has been developed. Beginning with the wand hand, you work up the arm, across the shoulders and down the other arm; it has also proven effective to massage the feet."

Poppy stroked back a curl from Granger's forehead.

"I care about you, Hermione," she added. "I could do the treatment, and it would help somewhat. Given the strength of the demonstrated sympathetic bond between you and Severus, however, it makes more sense to have him do it."

"Need I remind you, Poppy, that Miss Granger is my student?" He used the honorific as a defensive weapon, marking out a distance between them that he was determined not to cross. To touch her under the sensation-intensifying effect of the balm would be a dreadful invasion of her privacy. And it just might be more than he could bear. "The treatment should be carried out by a fully qualified medical professional."

Poppy threw the medical jargon back in his face: "As a fully qualified medical professional, Severus," she replied, her hands on her hips, "it is my considered opinion that the recovery outcome for this patient would be significantly improved by your participation."

As if this were a mere question of "outcomes." After his behaviour this evening Granger was never going to speak to him again, let alone subject herself to a massage.

Granger broke in to the conversation before Severus could muster an appropriate response. "Excuse me, Madam Pomfrey, could I have a word with Professor Snape?"

He jerked his head back at the use of his official title. _But you are her professor_, he reminded himself bitterly. _And you mustn't forget it._

Granger, he noticed, was watching Poppy with her lower lip caught between her teeth.

"Of course, dear." Poppy retreated, taking Granger's wand with her. On her way down the ward she sent a set of curtains snaking out along the ceiling, surrounding the bed where Granger lay and affording them both some privacy.

Granger waited to speak until the sound of Poppy's footsteps had moved out of hearing.

"How long does this kind of injury take to heal?" she asked.

"With the balm? A week." She wasn't looking at him. He decided to stare at the nearest length of curtain rather than watching her avoid his eye. "Without, it could take months."

"I've read about Phoenix balm," she said. There was a pause before she continued. "Will it hurt?"

"No," he said, a little too quickly. "Not unless," he clarified, "someone was doing something to hurt you. The balm intensifies feeling, good or bad."

She nodded. She was playing with the sheet where it lay over her lap, layering it over and back on itself in accordion folds. Her face was unreadable.

"Do you think that Madam Pomfrey is right, that you might be able to heal me faster than she could?"

He searched for a truthful answer. "I don't know," he said eventually. He felt wretched. "No-one is entirely sure how sympathetic magic works: the results are unpredictable."

"And why don't you want to do it?"

_Want?_ He _wanted_ to do the treatment. He _wanted _to rub her hands, arms, her shoulders. Indeed, he _wanted _to touch every inch of her. The issue was that he wanted it too much.

"I don't regularly massage my students, Miss Granger."

Her eyes flashed. "You don't regularly chase them down and Avada Kedavra them, either!" She broke off, then continued in a calmer voice. "I'm sorry. That was uncalled for."

"Don't apologise." The words came out harsher than he intended. For a second, he closed his eyes. "Granger," he said, opening his eyes and examining her closely. The tears had left streaks down her face, but she was—for the moment at least—no longer crying. "You have to mean that spell. Just saying it is not enough."

She gave him a long, unreadable look. Finally, she spoke. "I'm trying to believe you, Snape, to believe in you. Because you and I have a,"—her voice faltered—"a history of trusting each other, even . . . even . . ."

"Even when our actions run against expectations." He finished the sentence for her.

"I want to get better, Snape."

He thought about lifting the balm from the table and running his hands over Granger's skin. The wrongness of it rolled over him like a wave. Couldn't she see that?

"Do you remember that evening," she asked unexpectedly, "when I joined the Order of the Phoenix? It was my birthday."

Severus was thrown by the sudden change in topic. Luckily, Granger didn't seem to require a response.

"Towards the end of the meeting Dumbledore said something about our lessons, something important. Do you remember?"

Severus said nothing.

"_As your work in this regard falls under the category of your responsibilities as an Order member, and not as a student, neither Professor Vector nor Professor Snape will be able to award or deduct house points nor give detentions. I trust that you will find other motivations in order to strive and succeed._"

"Do you remember everything anyone has ever told you?" he asked, avoiding the content of what she was pointing out in favour of the outside form.

She shrugged, her eyes on his face. "When it's important, I do."

He knew what she was trying to say. What she was trying to do. She was suggesting that they weren't teacher and student in that moment, and that was a very, very dangerous suggestion to make. Severus gazed up to the curtain tracks in an attempt to avoid her gaze. Even looking at the ceiling, though, he could feel her eyes on him; he could see them out of the periphery of his vision.

"I know that I must sound crazy. Half an hour ago I didn't want you to come near me—"

"Rightfully, so!" Because he shouldn't be allowed near her. He was untrustworthy.

"Well, now I'm asking you to do this."

She didn't know what she was asking. She didn't know how much he desired to touch her, or how selfish and exploitative his touch would be.

"I want to get better, Snape, as fast as I can. And besides,"—she paused, taking a breath and letting it out in a rush—"I trust you. I want it to be you." She paused. "Please."

With that word, his head fell back, exposing his throat. His capitulation took physical form. It took him almost a full minute, but eventually he turned and lifted the jar of balm from the table. Without yet unscrewing it, he weighed it in his hands.

"Granger," he said, foundering, searching for words. "I'm sorry."

"What for?"

He gestured, his hand holding the balm. "For this. For this situation. For having scared you witless."

"Hey, it worked, didn't it?" She held up her palms and smiled weakly. "I destroyed that room."

"Yes, but—"

"But nothing. It was a teaching exercise, and it worked. I'm sorry I overreacted." She held out her wand hand towards him. "Now fix me."

Moving slowly, Severus unscrewed the lid of the jar, and scooped up a liberal two fingers' worth of balm. He put down the jar and cupped her hand with his. Even without the magnifying properties of the cream, he could feel the electricity of their contact in the hairs on the back of his neck. He was relieved to see that his hands were steady.

"We can stop at any time," he said.

"You haven't started yet," she replied, encouraging him with a jerk of her chin.

He spread the balm over the palm of her hand, and the shock of it left him breathless. He only barely held back a groan.

He felt Granger shudder. He heard her sharp inhalation, saw her eyes tilt closed.

"Granger?"

She leaned forwards slightly and her eyes fluttered open. "It's okay. It's just that my skin is singing."

Her skin was _singing_. _Yes_. So was his.

Ignoring his conscience entirely, Severus began again.

He felt a physical pleasure beyond anything he had ever experienced. The guilt in the morning would probably kill him, but he continued on regardless.

* * *

><p>Later, Poppy came back, slipping quietly in between the curtains. At some point, Granger had dropped into a blissed out sleep. Severus sat at the foot of the bed, one hand around her ankle, the other pushing up and across the ball of her foot.<p>

Without a word, Poppy conjured the mediglyph from before. This time, the pie chart recorded levels of 74%.

Severus blinked at the image. He felt lightheaded.

"But, but that's impossible."

"That, Severus, is evidence that I was right." Poppy looked smug.

She tidied away the jar of balm, tucking it into her apron pocket.

Severus, reluctantly, let go of Granger's ankle and covered her feet gently with the blanket. He rolled down his sleeves.

"You should give her her wand back," he said.

Poppy gave him a long look. "You'd better make sure she doesn't use it," she said, drawing the wand out and laying it on the small table near Granger's head. "If she does, I shall hold you personally responsible."

Severus rose to his feet. Exhaustion rolled over him, and he was forced to take hold of the end of the bed in order to keep his footing. His eyes alit on the nearest bed. A deep longing for sleep overwhelmed him.

"Come on," said Poppy. Somehow, without him noticing, she had crossed the room and was now peeling his teaching robes down from his shoulders. "Into bed with you," she said, spelling off his boots.

He blinked at her stupidly.

She took him by the upper arm and led him to the adjacent bed. She pulled back the covers and gently pushed him down towards the pillow. "Go to sleep," she said.

Severus reached out and took hold of her robes. His mind was struggling though a haze of tiredness and an overwhelming physical languor.

"Poppy," he managed. "What are you trying to do to me?"

She disengaged his fingers one by one.

"I, Severus, am just doing my best to heal those under my care."

"But it's so wrong." His eyes were closing despite his best efforts.

"Wrong?" he heard her whisper. "To save someone's life?"

Sleep pulled him downwards into oblivion, but before he lost consciousness altogether, he felt Poppy smooth the hair back from his forehead and tuck it behind his ear.

_She used to do that_, he remembered. _Back when I was a student and slept here._

"My dear boy," she breathed, "go to sleep."

* * *

><p>Severus woke with the sun warm across his face. The unexpected pleasure caused him to tilt back his head: he basked like a cat in the golden glow. Almost immediately, however, he realised he was being watched, and he jerked his head up, squinting into the light.<p>

There lay Granger in her hospital bed, her face mere feet from his own. Her hair was tousled, and she was watching him with an odd look on her face.

"Hi," she said. She bit down on her lower lip, trying and failing to hide the amused curve of a smile.

The word shot straight from his ears to his loins.

He felt breathless.

"Good morning," he managed, clipping the final word forcefully as he bit back the "Hermione" that threatened to drop from his lips.

He shut his eyes. Surely this was a dream. In a moment he would wake up, safe in his own bed in the dungeons. Hermione Granger would not be smiling at him from her pillow. He wouldn't be lying in the adjacent bed with a terrible hard on.

"I was beginning to wonder whether you slept at all."

He opened his eyes again. She was still there. And she was talking to him as if they were once again friends.

He swallowed. "I would ask that you keep the information to yourself. I have worked too hard at my reputation to have my humanity broadcast among the students."

She nodded, mock serious. "If anyone asks I will maintain that you slept upside down, hanging by your feet."

"Thank you," he said gravely.

She laughed, and the sound seemed to lodge behind his navel, warming him as much as the sun.

"You know," she said, suddenly serious, "that bed"—she pointed to where he lay—"is the one I was in when you sung me back together after Dolohov's curse. This one,"—she pointed at her own bed—"is the same one I used when I was recovering from the Polyjuice incident. That one," she continued, pointing at each bed in turn, "is where I lay petrified by the Basilisk, and over there—"

"I hope you're not injuring yourself in the hopes of filling all of them," commented Poppy, cutting into the conversation as she emerged from her office and crossed over to Hermione's bedside. "I never use those two by the door unless I absolutely have to; there's a terrible draft."

"No," replied Hermione, lifting her head to turn and look at Poppy. "I was just thinking about how frequently Snape has helped to put me back together."

"Well, yes." Poppy had two breakfast trays bobbing behind her, and with a gesture of her wand she set them to hover over their laps. "There are many students who have Severus to thank for their continued survival." She glanced at him and smiled.

Severus sat to eat, relieved that the talk of Hermione's injuries—however unwelcome—had quieted somewhat the fire in his nether regions. What evidence that remained was now safely concealed beneath the breakfast tray.

Poppy was taking diagnostics and outlining further treatment for Hermione.

"Last night's treatment was very successful. I'm very happy to see your magic levels this morning registering as high as 82%. I don't think there is any further need for the amplifying effect of the balm, however I will get Severus to treat you again before he leaves to teach."

Severus concentrated on the way his cutlery sliced through his food, on the taste of the hollandaise, the texture of the egg. He wasn't going to think about touching Hermione again. He wasn't.

"If things continue to improve at this pace," added Poppy, "you'll be up and about in another twenty-four hours."

"Well, given that the results are so good, and considering that it's Thursday . . ." Hermione trailed off in the face of Poppy's rather benign lack of response.

Severus had managed to eat his breakfast in record time. He got out of bed immediately.

"It's just that we've an Order meeting," added Hermione.

Whatever answer Poppy might have given was interrupted by Minerva's arrival: she threw open the doors with a bang and shrieked his name.

"Severus Snape!"

"To what do I owe the pleasure?" he drawled, buttoning the wrists of his teaching robes as she strode down the aisle towards him. Thank the gods she hadn't found him tucked up under the covers.

"What's this that I hear about you having rendered Hermione Granger incapacitated for the foreseeable future?"

"It isn't that bad, Minerva," said Poppy mildly. "If she continues to improve she'll be out of here tomorrow."

"But I need to go—" Hermione's polite attempt to enter the conversation was steamrolled by Minerva.

"Bad? It's terrible! She was scheduled to attempt her first transition!" Minerva turned her attention towards Hermione herself. "What were you thinking?" she expostulated. "How could you let Severus interfere this close to the trial?"

Hermione shrugged, her hands held wide to communicate her lack of choice in the matter. It wasn't as if she'd had any idea what he intended to do.

"Calm down, Minerva," he said. "Learning wandless magic will only aid in the process."

Minerva opened her mouth to respond, but Poppy forestalled whatever she had been about to say with an upheld hand. "Since you're here, Min, make yourself useful and hold Hermione's hand. Berating her—or Snape—will achieve nothing."

Obediently, Minerva took hold of Hermione's nearest hand and rubbed it between two of her own. "Do try and get better as quickly as possible, dear," she said almost absentmindedly. "I really think you're ready and I'm very keen to put it to the test."

Hermione took advantage of the brief lull in conversation to push her earlier concern. "I really do need to go to the Order meeting today," she said earnestly.

Poppy took and held her other hand, as much in apology as for any healing benefit that it might have offered. "I'm afraid that at this point, I can't allow you to leave your bed."

"But I don't need to use any magic, I just need to be there."

"Sorry, Hermione."

At the finality in Poppy's tone, Hermione bit back her further protests. She dropped her eyes to her lap, and Severus watched her struggle to reign in her disappointment. A moment later she raised her head again and smiled almost gracefully.

Severus took a step closer to the end of her bed and rested one hand near her foot. He hoped it came across as reassuring.

"There's no reason why we can't hold the meeting here," he said.

All three women stared at him. Hermione was round eyed with surprise.

"An excellent suggestion, Severus," said Poppy. "I'll be sure to put out the appropriate number of seats."

"Well, it's certainly unorthodox," said Minerva. She looked as if she was wracking her brain to find some impediment.

"We are meeting to discuss the Arithmancy results, after all," replied Severus. "Hermione Granger should be there." He'd tacked on her last name belatedly. Neither Poppy nor Minerva seemed to have noticed, but Hermione herself was still staring at his face.

"Eh, that she should be." Minerva sounded even more Scottish than usual as she admitted defeat.

Hermione smiled. The smile he thought of as her slow smile, the one that made his heart turn over. He forced himself to lift his hand from the bed and to wrench his eyes away from hers.

She'd forgiven him. She'd forgiven him _yet again_.

"If you will excuse me," he said with a half bow, "I have a class to teach."

As he strode towards the door he heard Poppy speaking to Hermione. "Bloody man was supposed to rub your hands again before he left. We'll have to get him to do it this evening, instead."

He was doomed, he realised. Doomed. And his treacherous heart was celebrating at the prospect.

* * *

><p>Severus spent the day teaching and thinking about Hermione Granger every time he blinked.<p>

When he got to the Order meeting that afternoon, Ronald Weasley was behind the head of Hermione's bed, massaging her shoulders; Ginevra and Potter stood either side, each of them rubbing one of her hands. In the foreground stood Minerva, carefully balancing Dumbledore's portrait in one of Poppy's chairs, and fussing as if the blasted painting were a favoured guest.

To Severus' surprise, he found the presence of the Albus simulacrum the more irritating of the two events. He wondered why.

As he took a seat—just out of "Dumbledore's" line of sight—he turned the question over, poking at the vision of Weasley and Hermione like a small child with a wobbly tooth. It definitely wobbled, it definitely made him uncomfortable, but it didn't cut him to the quick or leave him incapacitated with jealousy as he might have imagined.

For the purposes of the experiment, he pictured them kissing, and the jealousy roared back with a vengeance.

_Why?_

Was it the way her eyes had tracked him when he entered the room? Her slow smile when he'd caught her eye? Was it the residual warmth from their physical interaction the previous night?

_The balm had . . ._

He cut the thought short, deeming it inappropriate.

Once everyone had arrived, Severus called the meeting to order, ceding the floor to Vector with alacrity. Vector got quickly to the point.

"I'm happy to say, that thanks to many hours of work and several rather inspired insights on the part of Tracey and Hermione, we've had real progress with the calculations. In short, we have determined that if we use three sympathetic singers, we will be able to destroy the wand—" She broke off, wreathed in smiles, as the Order burst out into loud congratulations and celebratory noises.

"I knew you could do it," said Weasley, reaching out and patting Hermione's shoulder.

"Bloody brilliant news," said Jocelyn.

"Three?" asked Poppy, voicing Severus' own reaction.

He hadn't actively dwelt on the question of whom the singers might be, but if the truth were told, he'd assumed that it would be he and Hermione—they were, after all, the only people present who'd managed to perform sympathetic magic with any regularity.

Vector held up a hand for silence. "That's the other piece of good news, actually. Tracey and I took separate approaches to the problem and we both came up with the same solution."

Hermione leant forward and caught Tracey's eye. "Who?" she mouthed, her face edged with curiosity. Tracey grinned. Vector intercepted the exchange and she smiled, too.

"Hermione Granger, for one," said Vector—everyone in the room was hanging on her words—"Severus Snape, for two," she added, turning to look at him, "and for three, Jocelyn Malfoy."

"What?" Jocelyn was visibly taken aback. "But I can't even sing!"

Several people laughed.

"Never mind about that, dear," responded Minerva, she looked galvanised by the news that a solution was in their reach, "If Filius can teach an empty suit of armour to sing, I'm sure you'll pose little trouble."

Severus wondered if someone had rigged the math to expose his most private emotions to the world at large. All he had to do was manifest his love for the two most important young women in his life and the wand would just give up and die? He felt as if he were standing naked in public, hoping no-one else would notice.

"I don't get it," said William Weasely, breaking across several excited conversations. "I thought that the singers had to be in love? It doesn't make sense."

But it did make sense: terrible sense. Severus loved Hermione and Severus loved Jocelyn. Loved them both enough that he would tear the world apart to keep them safe. He stood there, waiting for the knut to drop, steeling himself for the mortified looks, the awkwardness. His humiliation.

What would Hermione think of him once she realised the nature of his affections? Nothing good. He was supposed to be her teacher.

"They don't have to be _in love_," said Ronald. "Right?" he added, turning to Hermione for confirmation. She looked blankly back at him, and he pressed on by himself. "They just have to be capable of _manifesting_ love."

"Yeah," said Potter, "Snape loved my mum, remember?"

James Jr. turned towards Severus with a soppy look on his face.

Were they all so blind? Had no-one else read through to the implications of Hermione's calculations?

"There are many different forms of love, Bill," said Vector mildly. "The calculations clearly show that these three particular singers have the capacity to destroy the wand."

Vector knew. He was sure of it.

"You know, Hermione," said Potter, "I owe you an apology."

Severus noticed that Potter and Ginevra were holding hands. The conversation moved on from the question of love, yet he hardly dared breathe, spooked by the perilous proximity of his exposure and the flimsy nature of his reprieve. At this point, it was only a matter of time.

"I was very negative when you first made the suggestion," added Potter, "and I was wrong."

Hermione smiled. "Thanks, Harry."

"Do you know what song you guys need to sing?"

"Perhaps Cyndi Lauper, _True Colours_?" suggested Hooch, her voice bland.

Potter's head snapped around to stare at her; it took him a second, but then he laughed. "We can certainly rule out Tina Turner," he responded, "_What's Love Got to do With It?_"

Hooch grinned, delighted to find someone willing to play one of her favourite games. "Maybe the Righteous Brothers, _Unchained Melody_?"

Hermione and Potter were both laughing, and Tracey was grinning.

"Ron?" queried Molly, not quite as quietly as she had perhaps intended, "I don't understand. Can you explain the joke?"

Weasley shook his head and lifted his shoulders. "I think it's a Muggle thing."

"You guys haven't been paying attention," said Jocelyn, rolling her eyes at Potter. "Hermione said ages ago that it had to be old music, from before the Statue of Secrecy."

The conversation and general frivolity continued, but Severus let it roll around him. He sat, flushed with adrenaline and relief, frozen with fear. Until this meeting he had lived under the assumption that he could keep his secret safe. That illusion was gone. Hooch knew, and Poppy, too. But they had always seen him and seen through him in a way that few others were capable of. Now, Vector knew. And as soon as Hermione was out of that bed and free to spin the math however she pleased, she would figure it out, too. All she had to do was to sit down with her beloved Arithmancy matrix and ask herself where all the "love" in the equation was coming from. Then she really would be gone: repulsed, disgusted, at the very least embarrassed and awkward.

Severus watched Weasley lean over and whisper something into Hermione's ear, he watched her laugh and shake her head. The idiot boy, all unknowing, had just helped buy Severus more time. Still, he took an almost vicious pleasure in the knowledge that later that night—when Weasley would be tucked up in his dorm like a good little schoolboy, fast asleep—Snape would be here in the Hospital Ward, running his hands over Hermione's skin and watching over her.

Severus stood abruptly. Draco lifted a hand to catch his attention, and Severus nodded, yes, he hadn't forgotten their meeting. He beckoned Jocelyn and walked to the edge of Hermione's bed.

"We should make a time to practice," he said.

"I've got to learn to sing, first," protested Jocelyn. She looked a little worried, and he squeezed her shoulder.

"We'll give you a week," he said. He gave her a reassuring look, and she nodded in return. "Next week? Monday evening?"

Hermione and Jocelyn both agreed, and Severus bent his head slightly in acknowledgement. With a final squeeze of Jocelyn's shoulder, he turned to go meet with Draco.

"You're not leaving, are you?" asked Poppy. "You've still got to—"

He stopped her with an upheld hand. "I'll be back."

She subsided. "Alright. Don't be too late. This one here needs her sleep."

Hermione needed her sleep, and he just needed her. He thought about how close he'd come to losing her—twice, in less than twenty-four hours. How much longer did he have? A few days? A few weeks?

There was an argument to be made for circumspection. A well-developed instinct for self-preservation suggested that he retain a decorous distance. Refrain from time spent alone with her. Avoid ambiguous situations. Looking down the long barrel of a lifetime of loneliness, however, Severus Snape resolved to do the opposite. He was ready to luxuriate in every last, bittersweet minute of her dizzyingly generous friendship. He knew already that she would ride off into the sunset with her good natured, clean-smelling, Quidditch-playing, war-hero boyfriend, but until that point, he would stockpile their moments together. Once she was gone, he'd have only his memories, but this way he'd have a few extra to add to his list.

* * *

><p>Draco accompanied him down to the dungeons. Out of the corner of his eye, Severus assessed the young man, trying to decide if he was really as happy as the smirk and the jaunty spring in his step suggested. In his own—fragile—emotional state he couldn't decide what would be worse: knowledge that Draco was happy, or that he wasn't. Neither spoke until they were seated in Severus' office, the door closed.<p>

"I noticed that Potter and Ginevra Weasley seem to have reconciled." Severus threw the words out there, testing the waters.

Draco's smirk deepened. "Yes."

Severus raised an eyebrow. "I take it you've moved on."

Draco shrugged. "You could say that." He tilted his head. "Lucius wouldn't approve of the switch, but then, I don't intend to tell him anything about it."

Severus wished the conversation were happening some other time. He wasn't giving Draco's words, or those he was leaving unsaid, the attention they deserved.

"In fact," added Draco, "I don't intend to tell anyone."

With a flutter of wings, Fawkes launched himself from his perch and landed on Severus' shoulder like a sigh of relief. As Fawkes clucked quietly and fussed with Severus' hair where it hung beside his ear, something of Severus' usual equanimity returned. He found himself able to concentrate on the way Draco was sitting, on the adolescent cockiness of his posture and his barely restrained excitement. He noticed the gleam of Draco's eyes, the set of his mouth, and the nervous energy of his fidgeting hands. There was something incredibly vulnerable about sum total. Severus asked, "Am I the only one who knows you're in love, Draco?"

"I wouldn't call it love." Draco's eyes skipped away from Severus, and his mouth hung open for a second before he added, "More like mutual antipathy."

There it was: a confession, a not-so-subtle hint. Severus suddenly realised how much Draco looked like a bleached, silvery-grey copy of Regulus Black.

"Sounds like your making a serious break with Malfoy tradition," he said.

"What do you mean?"

"I have it on very good authority," replied Severus, "that a Malfoy never resorts to force in the bedroom."

Draco let out a breathy laugh. Relief and delight danced across his face before he regained his attempt at suave. "I guess I'm not my father, after all."

"No." Severus liked to think that the same could be said about him. For a moment, he considered asking Draco who the girl was—presumably a muggleborn witch, or Lucius wouldn't be quite so predictably adverse to the notion—but he held his tongue. Draco would tell him when he was good and ready.

* * *

><p>After Draco left, Severus collected a pile of grading and wandered upstairs in the vague direction of the Hospital Wing. He ducked into the staff room on the way, drawn by thoughts of warm scones and hot tea. The sight that met his eyes gave him pause.<p>

Someone—Hooch? or Kaleisha?—had charmed the Wizarding Wireless to a local Classic Rock station. Kaleisha, Filius, and Pomona were improvising harmonies to the Beatles, while Hooch and Hagrid had carved themselves a space at the centre of a dance floor that included Irma, Aurora, William Weasley, and Krum. Even Sybill was there, trailing several scarves dangerously across the floor as she span slow circles in a corner.

"Severus!" Minerva was ensconced on a couch, her feet up on an ottoman and a generous slug of Firewhisky in her hand. Her robes were pulled back far enough to reveal high leather boots, laced to the knees with wide tartan ribbon. She patted the seat beside her. "Don't be a stranger."

He picked his way warily around the perimeter of the room, managing to make it to the couch without risking the melee of writhing bodies.

"What's the occasion?" he asked.

"You're the occasion! Well, you, Septima, your Slytherin girls, and that blessed, blessed Hermione Granger! Finally we have a reason for hope and celebration!" Minerva tilted her head and, for a second, rubbed her cheek—catlike—against his shoulder.

"Indeed." Severus looked around the room. He tried to remember the last time that he'd seen them all so happy.

"Ticket to Ride" came to a raucous end, and, as the next song began Severus was tempted to get up and dance. For a crazy moment he considered leaping to his feet and letting the pulse of Billy Joel, "A Matter of Trust," take over his body. But he couldn't. Not here. Not with Krum and Weasley glancing self-consciously at the older generation while they bounced in time to the beat, not with so many known faces watching.

When Hooch slid across the floor on her knees, though, belting the words "I won't hold back anything" while pointing at him, he did deign to deadpan the next line: "And I'll walk away a fool or a king."

Minerva laughed so hard that she choked on her Firewhisky, and Hagrid had to be forcefully dissuaded from thumping her on the back.

When she recovered she latched her claws into Severus' arm. "Hooch!" she called out. "Do you remember that night Severus got drunk at the Karaoke bar?"

"Must you, Minerva?" Severus asked in a pained voice. Weasely was staring in frank surprise. Severus made a half-hearted attempt to pull his arm from Minerva's grip, but she wasn't letting go without a fight and he subsided.

"How could I forget?" said Hooch, grinning. "He did that fucking brilliant Jagger impersonation."

Several of the other faculty members were laughing at his obvious discomfort, and Severus felt his anger building. Unexpectedly, Minerva tilted her head again, pushing up against his shoulder with the side of her face.

"That was the night I decided that we would be friends," she said softly.

Her words took him by surprise, and the rage leaked out of him. "That night?" he asked. It hadn't been the first time Hooch had dragged him along for drinks, but it was the first time she'd succeeded in getting him blind drunk. "Why?"

She gentled her hold on his arm. "I reasoned that no genuine Death Eater would be quite so familiar with Rock and Roll."

"I'm very thorough in my research," he said. He stared down at the severe part in her dark hair. He heard her soft chuckle.

Minerva's confession left him oddly moved, and if the next song hadn't been "I want to know what love is," he might have stayed longer. As it was, Minerva had started to hum along with the introduction. He knew her well enough to predict that she'd be singing in full voice by the insufferable chorus. He took the opportunity to unwind her fingers from his bicep and pushed himself to his feet. Hooch tried to spin him into the dance as he navigated the perimeter, but he stood, impassive and she was forced to dance around him.

"If you happen to see that Poppy of mine on your travels," she said, "tell her that I love her more than words, tell her that the sight of her in the morning is like sunshine to my soul, that—"

"I'll endeavour to communicate the sentiment," he replied, and she danced away.

Just before he slipped out the door the supper spread caught his eye. Pausing only long enough to fill a cup from an elaborately curlicued urn, he headed—finally—for the hospital wing.

* * *

><p>AN: It seems to me, that since I've written a chapter that is almost *twice* as long as usual, you should all leave two reviews! That seems logical, right? :)

There's actually one sentence in here that I was particularly proud of writing. Can you figure out which one?


	26. Chapter 25: Results

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 25: Results

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: The "magic" sentence for me was "Severus spent the day teaching and thinking of Hermione Granger every time he blinked." Writing about being in love without sounding bombastic is difficult, but I felt this sentence managed to balance very plain language with a kind of obsession that I have often been prey to. Sigh. HiddenHibernian, Ayame Nekura, and pooloslime picked it. So points for them!

On the topic (because we were on the topic in several of your reviews!) of Snape + music of his youth, have you read the story by Dressagegrrrl? The one where Snape is in a band called Schadenfreude? Like all of her stuff it is hilarious, touching, with great snark and a very sympathetic Hermione; here, I looked up the link for you: s/5696229/1/Schadenfreude.

In other news over the last week this story surpassed Phoenix Tears in length it topped 100,000 views on good old FFnet; and you wrote me a bunch of FUCKING awesome reviews that fired me up to finish this chapter when I should have been sleeping. Poor me, I never get any beauty sleep.

What else? Um, well, the semester progresses ever nearer its watery end.

Also, this chapter is dedicated to katerinka80, for her remarkably astute guess as the to plot turns that are about to come. Let me quote it for your reading pleasure:

"You'll probably throw in another war, a Triwizard  
>Tournament in France, a Revolt at the Wizengamot, another Quidditch World Cup,<br>a Lottery win resulting in travels around the world, the breakdown of the  
>Statue of Secrecy, the Liberation of all House Elves, some adventures with the<br>Centaurs, Voldemort's nth return, oh, and something with dragons (I loooove  
>dragons!), Harry's unexpected appointment as Minister, a Zombie Apocalypse and<br>a Crumple-Horned Snorkack invasion too for good measure before we get there."

Now, really, my friends? Would I do that to you after you've already been with me for SEVENTY-FIVE CHAPTERS? Guess you'll just have to read on and find out ...

* * *

><p>The Hospital Wing emptied out slowly, with several people stopping by Hermione's bed to hold her hand briefly before they left. She smiled at them all, enjoying the relief and excitement on their faces, cataloguing the various ways in which their touch felt against her skin.<p>

Finally, even Jocelyn was gone, pulled back to the Slytherin common room by her friend, Chelsea. Hermione watched as Poppy tidied away the last of the chairs and rearranged the beds into uniform lines. Her mind turned, inevitably, to thoughts of Severus Snape: the last twenty-four hours had been a rollercoaster of intense emotion.

She wished she had a piece of parchment and a pen with which to order her thoughts, but in their absence, she focused on a chronological list. First, she'd felt cared for. His impulse to restart the defence lessons had emerged out of the fact that someone had been raped. He wanted to save her from the same fate, and that had meant something important. Second, she'd been terrified. She could see now how carefully he'd set her up to feel that way, and he knew her well enough to achieve remarkable success. Third, she'd felt betrayed. If it hadn't had been Snape, she acknowledged, even the killing curse might not have been enough to trigger her magic. Harry or Ron, maybe? No, not even. She wasn't entirely convinced either of them would be capable of actually casting the killing curse, and certainly not at her. Fourth, once she'd realised what had actually happened, she'd been furious—_No_, she corrected herself. Fourth, she'd been devastated. But perhaps that was part of the feelings of betrayal? Could she call that "3b"?

She ran her mental list from the start: 1. cared for, 2. terrified, 3a. betrayed, 3b. devastated, 4. furious.

_Yes, furious_. She'd been so angry at him for putting her into such a frightening position, and then she'd been even more angry at his obvious reluctance to help get her out of it. Once he touched her, though, she hadn't been able to think about anything other than the massage itself. Under the influence of the balm—

"How are you feeling?" asked Poppy, interrupting Hermione's train of thought.

"Er, very well, really." Hermione pleated the near edge of the sheet between her fingers and changed the topic. "It's great news about the wand, isn't it?"

"It is." Poppy smiled. "You must be very happy. That wasn't really what I was asking, though."

"I know that." Hermione pulled a face to show that she wasn't really avoiding the question. "Honestly, I feel great. All those people, wanting me to get better—I could feel it when they touched me."

_Most of all, when Severus touched me . . ._

"Just make sure you avoid contact with anyone who might wish you ill," said Poppy, waving one finger in warning. "It would have a detrimental effect."

Hermione nodded. "Each person feels different," she said.

"Yes. That's because your relationship with each person is different." Poppy lowered herself into the chair beside Hermione's bed and fished some knitting out of her apron pocket.

"What does it feel like for the other person?"

"Nobody knows for sure, since we can't compare the feelings of two individuals with any accuracy. As far as we know, they feel what you feel."

Hermione's heart stopped. She tried to sound casual, but she could barely breathe. "They feel what I feel?"

Poppy must have caught something of her panic, for she looked up from her knitting, a slight crease between her brows. "That's what 'sympathetic magic' means, Hermione—and why it's so difficult to reproduce accurately. They have to feel what you feel or it doesn't work."

"So, when they touch me, they can feel my emotions?"

Was that why Snape had been so reluctant to touch her last night? Had he felt her feelings for him under his fingertips?

Hermione flushed with shame. She'd been so aroused. She wished the bed would swallow her.

"No." Poppy shook her head. "No, Hermione, you've got things backwards: the magic works _because_ the people concerned have sympathy for each other. They have to want the same thing from their relationship; the more closely attuned their desires are, the stronger the sympathetic connection."

The words seemed opaque. Hermione had to slow them down and repeat them to herself. It took several repetitions before they sunk in.

_They have to want the same thing from their relationship._

_Then we, that means that we must . . ._

_Severus and I . . ._

_We have to want . . . _

_the same . . ._

_He feels what I feel._

Hermione stared unseeingly at the bed opposite. Severus felt what she felt.

It was too much to process.

Hermione tried, and failed, to say something in reply to Poppy, to punctuate the soft click of the other woman's knitting needles with mindless, mundane words. Instead she sat there, submerged in a flood of memories, belatedly recontextualising everything Severus had ever done for her.

She relived his help with The Potion, his rage on her behalf, his care, his concern. She remembered their dance at the Yule Ball, his anger when Hooch suggested she might dance with Viktor. She thought about the Felix Felicis kiss, and the morning on the beach when she'd sobbed in his arms.

Her world reeled.

_How long?_ she wondered. _How long has he wanted . . . what I want?_

Sometime between the moment that he'd healed Dolohov's curse—leaving a ropy, predictable scar—and the moment that she'd sung Naginin's wound back together into whole, virtually unmarked flesh, their desires had "attuned." That was the word Poppy had used, "attuned."

Hermione, or course, knew what she wanted, though she blushed to admit it.

She wanted to watch him while he brewed, to lay her latest Arithmancy calculations out under the fierce weight of his attention. She wanted to hear him talk about his past, to know him better than she knew herself, for him to call her out on her mistakes and to want her forgiveness for his own. She wanted to run her fingers up the bones of his spine, to watch him while he slept, to press her lips into the skin on his throat where his pulse jumped, to cleave against him, to move with him and around him.

And if he wanted that, too, then . . .

Then . . .

The thought faltered. It sputtered to a stop. To bring it to completion was to take her feelings for Snape out of the safe container she'd built around them. For if he wanted the same thing, then she didn't just . . . she didn't merely have a crush on her teacher. She had something else.

Something big.

Something terrifying.

Her eyes sought the hospital clock. How long did she have before he came back in order to massage her back to health? How long did she have to wrestle with her emotions? The time told her nothing, of course, because she wasn't sure when he was coming. But she knew he would. He'd said so. And he always came to look after her when she was in the Hospital Wing. Always.

A new thought occurred: did he know?

Hermione turned the thought over. Not just, did he know how _he_ felt about _her_, because presumably he did. If he felt even a fraction of the feelings she had churning inside, then he must have noticed.

But did he know that she felt the same?

She tried to put herself in his shoes.

Perhaps he was still in love with Lily Potter. Perhaps he wanted to be.

His words on the beach shuddered through her. _"I told him . . . I told him that I desired you."_

At the time, she'd felt like such a fool for wishing they were true. What struck her now was the self-loathing in his voice.

Voldemort was the greatest Legilimens of his age; maybe, just maybe, it had been true after all.

The Snape she knew would not feel sanguine about his desire for a student. He would fight himself every step of the way. He didn't seem to view himself as worthy of being loved, and he certainly wouldn't act on desires he thought were inappropriate, even were he to believe they were reciprocated.

"Inappropriate" was the word he had used the other night.

Besides, like everyone else in the school besides her, Ron, and possibly Draco Malfoy, he probably thought she was besotted with her "boyfriend."

He chose that moment to shoulder open the door, pushing his way into the room with a bundle of student scrolls under one arm and a delicate lilac teacup in his other hand.

"Poppy," he said, nodding a greeting.

He didn't say anything to Hermione, who avoided his eye. She was struggling to get her breathing under control; the sight of him had set her heart pounding.

She wasn't ready to deal with him. Not with this new knowledge burning a hole in her head. She needed some space and some time and a blank piece of paper and some Arithmancy calculations. She needed to get a grip.

Wordlessly, he held out the cup. Hermione took it on automatic pilot, noticing the slight clink of cup against saucer as her hand trembled. She stared at the contents: a dark, viscous substance. It smelled of chocolate.

"What is it?" she managed, and her mind, still churning with her all-too-recent revelation, conjured up a memory from early in their working relationship: Snape, unimpressed that she would drink a potion down without knowing what it was.

"Italian hot chocolate," he said. "The House Elves make it occasionally for the staffroom."

"Oh," she managed. She shot a glance at Poppy. "Will chocolate help my magic levels?"

Poppy looked mildly surprised. "It can't hurt," she said.

Hermione looked back at Snape. "I thought you might like it," he said.

Hermione was speechless. She took a mouthful, conscious of his gaze. The chocolate was shockingly good.

"Wow." She raised her eyes again to his and tried to read his inscrutable face. She felt suddenly self conscious of the chocolate on her upper lip, and then, as her tongue flicked out to lick it off, conscious of her tongue. She looked away and wiped her mouth with her hand.

He turned his attention to Poppy, thank goodness, giving Hermione a moment to regain some control.

"I saw Hooch in the staffroom," he said to Poppy. "She sends her regards."

"She does?" Poppy looked up with a half smile. "Were those her exact words?"

"No, but that was the gist." Severus crossed his arms and looked down at Poppy and her knitting. "You should go and see her," he said unexpectedly. "They're in full celebration mode—all of them, singing and dancing. I haven't seen them like that in years."

"Oh," replied Poppy. She looked up at Hermione, and Hermione could see that she was tempted.

"I can hold down the fort here," said Severus.

What was he doing? While a part of her might want it, he didn't seem ready to ravish her—he'd brought his grading with him, after all. Hermione tried to imagine how she'd feel at his actions if she hadn't just had her revelation.

"You're sure?" asked Poppy.

"Go," he said. "It's my fault that she's in here, after all. You shouldn't be the one who has to suffer."

"Thanks, Severus." Poppy stuck her knitting back into her apron and rose to her feet. She reached out and squeezed Severus' hand. "I appreciate the night off."

"Give Hooch my regards," he said.

"I will." Poppy laughed and smiled at them both. She took off her bonnet and patted her hair down as she made her way across to the door. "Just send for me if you need me," she said, and with that she was gone.

Hermione felt breathless in the silence that followed Poppy's departure. She fussed a little with her cup and drank another mouthful of the chocolate.

As she wiped her mouth for the second time, she thought about kissing Severus. Even as she acknowledged the desire and the magnetic pull of his presence, the fantasy was accompanied by a clear realisation: she didn't want to kiss him here.

Not here, not now.

She didn't want any hint of impropriety to surround them. She didn't want to be his student when it happened. She didn't want to leave him or any of their possible detractors with the means to claim that he'd taken advantage of her. She didn't want to give him any opportunity to retreat back into antagonistic silence, nothing that could lead him to stop speaking to her. And she needed to make sure he knew how she felt about him before she made her move.

That gave her less than two months, less than seven weeks. She had just under seven weeks to destroy the Elder Wand, study for her NEWTs, break up with her boyfriend, and subtly convince Severus Snape of his good heart and worthy nature.

Should be a piece of cake.

"Congratulations."

Severus broke the silence and Hermione wasn't sure initially what she was being congratulated for.

"You must feel very happy to have finally solved the question of how to destroy the wand."

"Yes." A plan of action decided—however nebulous—left Hermione feeling calmer. She was able to respond in a manner conducive of conversation: a conversation that furthered her agenda. "It was actually our discussion of souls that put me on the path to the solution. Do you want to see the math?"

"Yes."

"Can I borrow a pen?"

Severus furnished her with a quill, ink, and a piece of scrap parchment from the pile of grading he'd brought with him, and Hermione copied out the formula they'd developed. She substituted the runes they used for her, Jocelyn, and Severus in place of generic actors.

"This is the important factor," she explained, pointing out the soul co-efficient that modified each of the various components. "Our souls, of course, are whole—represented by 'one'—but that of the wand is damaged." She pushed the parchment across the sheets towards him. "You'll have to solve it; Poppy hasn't given me the green light yet to use my wand."

"_Solutio_," said Severus, tapping the page with his wand.

Hermione watched his face as the calculations shimmered and solved. She saw the slight twitch of his mouth and the movements around his eyes as the "wand" represented in the calculations was cancelled into nothing by a surfeit of "love."

"Impressive," he said.

His expression did not shift, and his voice was completely neutral. From anyone else it would have sounded dismissive. Under the circumstances, Hermione could not restrain a wide grin.

"I've never considered whether wands have souls." he added.

"Do Muggles have souls?" she countered.

The corner of his mouth quirked. "Ah. A question debated now for millennia among Pureblood circles."

"And in your humble opinion?"

"Of course they do. Just like they have memories." He lifted the open bottle of ink off the quilt where it lay, and screwed the lid back on. "With the help of magic, witches and wizards can manipulate their memories in a palpable form. In my considered opinion, the same is true of souls. Just because Muggles can't see them, doesn't mean they don't have them."

"And animals? Do animals have souls?"

He turned around to perch on the edge of her bed. He crossed his arms.

"Animals are alive. Many are observably intelligent."

"I'm sure Fawkes would be relieved to hear you say it." Hermione raised her eyebrows at him.

He smiled. A definite smile, though it only conquered half of his face. "Point taken. Okay, so Fawkes has a soul. Are you suggesting that all magical animals have a soul?"

"If we were to suggest that, then it logically follows from your earlier argument about Muggles, that _all _animals have souls."

"I'm afraid that the Church would disagree with you there."

Hermione sniffed. "Well, it wouldn't be the only point on which our beliefs diverge."

He gave her an eloquent look.

"What?" she demanded. "You're laughing at me."

"Me, laughing?"

"You are."

"Sometimes," he said, and there was a smile in his voice, "you remind me of Minerva."

"I shall take that as a compliment."

"Thousands wouldn't."

She pulled a face at him.

"Has she forgiven you yet, for landing yourself in the Hospital Wing when you were supposed to be practicing your transition?"

"I think so. She's given me ten days to recover and a pile of reading to do in the meantime."

"Well," he paused and let out a breath through his nose, "I can't help you with the reading, but I can help you recover."

Hermione nodded.

"Shall we?" he asked, holding out his near hand, palm up.

She nodded again. She drank down the last of her chocolate and placed the cup on the side table, then she put her wand hand, palm up, into his. The massage began.

The previous night, under the magnifying effects of the balm, his touch had been almost painfully pleasurable. Even now, just skin on skin, she had to bite down on her bottom lip and blink repeatedly to ensure she didn't embarrass them both.

He bent his head to his task: carefully and thoroughly rubbing along the bones of her hand and then her arm. For as long as he sat in her sight, she watched his hands and the way that his hair hung down against his cheek. Once he moved around behind her to rub her shoulders, her eyes slid shut and she let the sensation sweep over her.

His touch seemed to reach far below the surfaces of her skin. She felt her muscles relaxing into him, the beat of her heart matching itself to the rhythm of his movements. When he gently tilted her head to the left and ran the ball of his thumb up the right side of her neck, she sighed his name: "Severus."

The sound from her own lips shocked her back to a panicked attention. "I'm sorry!" she stammered, pulling a mortified face that she was grateful he couldn't see.

"Why?" he asked. "For knowing my name?" His hands had stopped for a brief moment, but now they were moving again.

"For using it," she said, still awkward, still worried that she'd put her foot in it.

"I don't mind," he said quietly. After a beat he added, "Hermione."

Hermione forced herself to swallow. She tried to relax back into the massage, but her shoulders were rigid with surprise.

She wanted to say his name again, wanted the feel of it in her mouth; she wanted him to say her name again, wanted to savour the low notes of his voice as they wrapped the many syllables of her name into a stream of sound.

After an interminable few moments, Hermione managed to lower her shoulders back into a semblance of relaxation. Severus returned his attention to her neck, the tips of several fingers finding their way into her hair.

Hermione thought of all the things she wanted to say—"God, yes," "Do that again," "Don't stop," "That feels wonderful,"—and bit down resolutely on her lower lip. She was on perilous, perilous ground.

Eventually, time passed, and Severus moved his attention from her shoulders, down her arm to her hand.

"Shall I do your feet?" he asked.

The question gave Hermione pause. Madam Pomfrey wasn't there to run the diagnostic, however Hermione would have been ready to hazard money that her magic had reached normal levels: the odd buzzing sensations that she'd felt since the explosion had gradually subsided. She felt normal.

Still, she didn't want him to stop.

"If you don't mind," she said, hoping that the words came out sounding casual.

Severus made no comment. He walked down to the end of the bed and pulled up a chair. He uncovered one of her feet and lifted it gently.

"Hermione," he said, "we never finished our conversation about souls."

She seized on the topic gratefully, relieved to have something else to concentrate on. "Yes! It really boils down to the definition of soul."

"And how do you define it?"

"Traditionally, the soul has been thought to combine some sort of lifeforce with a moral component—and for this reason the Church has limited souls to humans, and some Purebloods have limited them to wizardingkind. I'm starting to wonder whether perhaps there hasn't been some confusion of two different things."

"Explain."

This conversation was perfect. Hermione wished it might go on indefinitely, with Severus listening to her thought process and taking her suggestions seriously. "Well," she said, "what if everything that is living has a soul. And I do mean everything."

"Head lice? Trees? Flesh-eating slugs?"

Hermione was nodding as he spoke. "Yes, exactly. Everything. And what if the ability to reason, to choose right from wrong, gives some living creatures a unique ability to damage their own soul?"

Severus stopped still, digesting her words. "An animal that hunts does no damage to its soul."

"Right."

_He wants_, thought Hermione, _what I want_. Which meant that he wanted her friendship and her ideas and her listening and her trust—just as much as he wanted to fuck her. She blushed at the thought, and then blundered forward with the conversation to ensure he didn't look at her too closely and wonder what she was thinking about.

"I kept thinking," she said, "about how similar Bellatrix's wand felt to Tom Riddle's Horcrux. It made me think about how souls can be damaged, and wonder what else counted as having a soul."

She was watching his face and she noticed the exact moment when the muscles around his mouth tightened.

"Don't," she said sharply.

He froze, his hands millimetres from her foot. "Don't what?"

"Don't go thinking about how souls damage themselves and thinking that your soul is damaged."

He stared at her, his expression blank.

"Human souls can also repair themselves," she said. "It's a slow, painful process, but genuine remorse can knit the torn soul back together. And since we know your soul is whole, based on the magic you can perform, we can only conclude that you have castigated yourself quite enough for the time being."

She was a little shocked at her own boldness. She had to force herself to meet his blank stare without flinching.

After a moment, he dropped his gaze to her feet. He lifted the covers and moved them back into place, carefully tucking in the end of the bed.

"You should go to sleep," he said. "It's late."

Despite his words and the abrupt change of subject, he didn't seem cross with her. Hermione made noises of agreement and wriggled down so that she was lying properly in the bed.

Still, she didn't fall immediately to sleep.

She had to work up to saying his name, but she managed it: "Severus?"

"Hermione?" He looked up from the chair beside her bed. His hair hung down beside his face, leaving his eyes in shadow.

"That exercise," she said, "in the maze." She paused, took a breath. "I don't ever want to do that again."

"No," he agreed.

"Could we try it the other way? I know you said it was more difficult."

"We could."

"Thanks."

He said, "Don't thank me, go to sleep."

Not long after that, she did.

* * *

><p>As promised, Poppy let Hermione out of the Hospital Wing the following day, and gave her full permission to use her wand. She threw herself back into classes and revision with relief—the exams, as she reminded Ron and Harry as often as possible—were fast approaching. She also worked out which piece of music they would use to destroy the wand and she took on the task of giving Jocelyn some more confidence in her singing abilities. The first step was to show her the matrix.<p>

Hermione found Jocelyn up in the long corridor, sharing a patch of spring sunlight with one of her friends.

"Hi, Chelsea, hi, Jocelyn."

"Hey, Hermione!" Jocelyn leapt nimbly down from the window ledge. "I'm ready."

Chelsea pulled a face reminiscent of every teenager, anywhere, who has ever been abandoned by a friend in favour of other company. She jumped down after Jocelyn. "Come find me when you're done, right?" she said. "I'll be in the common room with Milt."

The two Slytherins exchanged a casual goodbye hug. As Hermione and Jocelyn turned to leave, Jocelyn slipped her hand into the crook of Hermione's arm, and Hermione wondered if her younger friend had any real grasp of her nonchalant popularity.

It took them only a few minutes to walk to Vector's office. Hermione wasn't altogether surprised to find Tracey there as well as the professor, but she was taken aback by the glare Tracey shot her way.

"What's up?" she asked, her eyes skidding from Tracey's accusing face to the graphical array she had floating above her workspace. It wasn't a portion of the matrix that she recognised.

"I could ask you the same question," replied Tracey. "Something you haven't told us about you and Professor Snape?"

"What are you talking about?" Hermione felt ill.

Tracey gestured at the hovering graph. "Just for fun, I was running the fractals on the results of our wand equation, and this is what I found."

"What?" asked Jocelyn, pushing forwards to look closely at the three multicoloured lines. "What does that mean?"

The question de-railed Tracey's aggression. She let out an exasperated breath before answering Jocelyn with a reasonable facsimile of politeness.

"When the three of you sing to destroy the wand, Jocelyn, you need to produce enough love to destroy the wand. Once the wand disintegrates, the equation shows that you three remain—unharmed—and some love does, too. I took the love quotient, and broke it down into its constitutive categories."

"And?" asked Jocelyn. "That's what these three lines are?"

"Yes," said Tracey, and shot another nasty look at Hermione. "There are three different kinds of love involved: familial, friendly, and romantic."

Hermione opened her mouth to deny everything, but nothing came out. _Severus wouldn't lie_, she thought, _he'd find some way to speak the truth without giving anything away._

She tried to say, "Nothing untoward has happened between us," but even those words didn't seem to work. Her mind's eye called up the memory of his fingers, sliding up into her hair; she thought of their long-ago Felix Felicis kiss.

Luckily, Jocelyn was filling the air with words of her own: "Just because we're manifesting that love doesn't mean we're feeling it for each other! Hell, I'm fourteen years old! I feel half of those emotions before breakfast everyday. I like to imagine that one day maybe I'll even feel all three of them for the one person, or just for one person at once."

There was more, but Hermione stopped listening. She was looking at the graphical lines in front of her and realising what an idiot she'd been.

Somehow, without Hermione being quite sure what exactly had taken place, Jocelyn was hustling Tracey out the door.

"Wait, Jocelyn—I wanted to show you the matrix—"

"That's okay, I saw enough. We're going to head back to the common room. I'll see you later, okay?" And she was gone.

They were both gone, which left Hermione alone with Vector, the matrix, and the new graph that Tracey had derived.

After a long moment, Hermione spoke: "How long have you known?"

"Known what?" Vector was looking at her the same, gentle way that she always did.

"Known that . . ." Hermione took a breath and started again. "Known that I'm in love with Severus Snape."

"Since now, when you told me."

Hermione stared at Vector, who seemed completely unperturbed by the confession.

"Of course, the calculations had suggested it was quite likely." Vector shrugged, and smiled. "Arithmancy deals in probabilities, Hermione. Whereas love, in my experience, is mostly about improbabilities." Vector tucked her fringe behind her ear. "Is Severus in love with you?"

"I don't know." Hermione looked at Tracey's graph, and then back at Vector. "I hope so. But he hasn't—I haven't—" She cast around for the right words. "I just don't want there to be anything sordid about it."

"The semester is almost over," said Vector. She offered the words as a consolation.

"Six weeks and two days." _But who's counting?_

"The blink of an eye."

Hermione threw her arms wide in frustration: "It feels like eternity!"

Vector smiled. "Sit down," she said. "I'll make you some coffee."

She also pulled out some crumbly, buttery biscuits coated in soft white clouds of icing sugar. She called them kourambiedes, and Hermione practiced the unfamiliar syllables.

"I'll have a talk with Tracey," said Vector. "Remind her how unprofessional her behaviour was."

"Her conclusions were right," said Hermione. She felt lost in the face of Tracey's antagonism and the ever-growing circle of people who had worked out what was happening. Everything seemed to be out of her control.

"She doesn't know that, though. As an Arithmancer she needs to keep an open mind about the conclusions that can be drawn from any data set. And she was wrong to accuse you of improper behaviour."

"How long have you known?" asked Hermione, shifting the conversation back to where it had begun.

Vector shrugged.

"Did you know when you told me the story about you and the man who died? Who was once your student?"

"Hmm. I don't think I did, though perhaps I had identified it as a possibility. I told you that story because we were headed into a battle. I'm not particularly skilled at fighting, but I do believe that there are some things worth fighting for." Vector rested her chin in her hand, her elbow on her desk. "Remember, Hermione, that with Arithmancy—as with life—you have to ask the right questions in order to get the answers you're looking for."

"Right." Hermione washed down a mouthful of sweet biscuit with bitter coffee. "So . . . should I wait or should I confront him now?"

"That," said Vector, "is a question beyond the limits of Arithmancy. Love is a one-in-a-million, and yet look how many people manage to find it."

"Forget Arithmancy," said Hermione impulsively. "What do you think? Should I wait?"

"Six weeks and two days?" asked Vector. "It's not a particularly long time, and the wait would confer some significant advantages. My real answer though, is that you're going to have to play this by ear. Trust your instinct, trust yourself. Don't force anything, and the right moment will present itself."

* * *

><p>Hermione was revising her Muggle Studies text over breakfast, so she didn't pay much attention to the conversation around her until she heard her name.<p>

Whatever Seamus had asked, Ron was responding with some irritation: "It's none of your business what Hermione and I get up to. I still think you should have tried it!"

"She does!" crowed Dean. "I bet she does!"

"What's going on?" asked Hermione, cutting across the conversation with what she considered her best McGonagall voice.

Ron rolled his eyes at the other boys, most of whom had dissolved into laughter. "Seamus broke up with Astoria Greengrass because she wanted to handcuff him to the bedstead."

Hermione turned a baleful glance on Seamus, who shrugged.

"What?" he said. "There's no way she was tying me up!"

"Let me get this straight," said Hermione coldly, "a woman trusted you enough to discuss her fantasies with you, and you saw fit to share them with others?"

"She's a Slytherin, remember?"

Dean sniggered, and Hermione turned her glare on him. "What?" he said, echoing Seamus in tone.

"Didn't realise that _bondage_ was such a _touchy subject_ between you two," said Seamus, waggling his eyebrows lewdly.

"Shut up," said Ron.

Hermione was already gathering up her books, and Ron stood with her so that they could leave.

"Until you grow up and learn to respect the privacy of other people," said Hermione to Seamus as they left, "I don't expect you'll get many other opportunities to find out what goes on between anyone."

Behind her back, she heard someone whisper, "He is pussy whipped!" Neville, bless his heart, told whomever it was to shut up.

Ron slung his arm over her shoulder as they walked towards the door. "They're idiots," he said.

"Yes," agreed Hermione. "Listen, Ron," she added, "we really have to talk about—Aurors!"

"What? Oh."

Half a dozen Aurors in full battle robes had stepped into the Hall, blocking their exit.

"I hope you're not going anywhere, Weasley," said the closest Auror, smiling in such a way that his teeth flashed. "Your presence is required at headquarters. We need you, Potter, and Longbottom, and make it snappy."

* * *

><p>AN: *Examines nails* What? Oh? Are you certain? Another cliffhanger?


	27. Chapter 26: Resonance

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 26: Resonance

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Just a heads up, this will be the last chapter posted here. As of next week I will pull my stories, polish them up and then post them on Kindle Worlds where you can pay to download them to supported eReaders. That way I shall finally make my millions and retire from my real job. Hahaha, just joking! This story is still FREE, FREE, FREE, and will be to the bitter, bitter end. All you need do is review! [Just to be clear, this was definitely a joke: there will be more chapters; I am not pulling the story.]

In other news, and this is WONDERFUL news: Anne London has started translating the trilogy into ITALIAN! Troppo bello! You can read it here: w w w . . n e t ?sid=1828096&i=1. And of course, you can still read it in Hungarian if you're so inclined. Elwyng has been working like a champion and has almost the entire stories up to this point posted here: : / / . h u / merengo / viewuser . php ? uid = 12264

(Of course, chances are very high that FFnet will edit out those addresses, but hey, you can google them. Point is really just to cheer on Anne London and Elwyng for their mammoth and marvelous efforts.)

OH, AND I NEARLY FORGOT SOMETHING EXCITING: I just noticed a new (? possibly old, I just noticed it) feature on FFnet whereby you can upload a cover image for each story. Made me think to ask you guys whether anyone had drawn/photoshopped/painted/engraved any art inspired by the story. If you do have a picture of Hermione and Severus jumping off a cliff together or getting a phoenix tattoo or standing stock still in the middle of the Yule Ball dance floor or blowing up the room of requirement or something, LET ME KNOW, because i would love to put a cover image that was actually, you know, relevant to our mutual interests.

And on that note, GUESS WHAT? (have you had enough capitals, yet?) I wrote a new chapter. Here it is!

* * *

><p>The Aurors were considerate enough to send Minerva a courtesy message announcing their arrival—it arrived precisely two minutes before they did. Minerva had opened the mail, inhaled sharply, and thrust the parchment towards Severus. Seconds later she was on her way out into the Great Hall, intent on the Gryffindor table. He himself had had time only to glace at the message before he was on his feet, hurrying around the staff table, close on her heels. Law enforcement turned up before she got there, stopping Hermione and Weasley who had been almost at the door.<p>

Severus wasn't quite close enough to hear what Auror Perkins had to say, but he saw the way Hermione stiffened. He caught her eye as she turned back towards the staff table. He recognised the shock and the fear that pinched at her mouth. "Harry," she mouthed, and he nodded in reply. That much he knew: why they wanted Harry _et al _was the real question.

"What is the meaning of this?" demanded Minerva.

"Why?" asked Perkins, dripping condescension. "Didn't you get our message?" He turned and looked over his shoulder at the ranks behind him. "Coxton? Please confirm that a message was sent to Headmistress McGonagall."

"Yes, sir," said Coxton obediently.

Perkins turned back towards Minerva and graced her with an insincere smile. "Wonderful."

By this point, a small crowd of the upper-year Gryffindors had gathered.

"What's going on?" asked Potter, his eyes shifting from the Aurors to his friends and back again. Severus noticed that his wand hand hovered near his hip, ready to draw if necessary.

The last thing they needed was an out-and-out battle with Ministry forces—this time they were _supposed_ to be on the same side. All around him, however, he was aware of people preparing for a possible fight: the faculty had fanned out from the staff table, stationing themselves in order to protect the students, those who had fought in Dumbledore's Children's Army were moving up in groups behind him.

Where, he wondered, was Kingsley? He glanced at the door, hoping rather vainly that the Minister of Magic might suddenly appear.

"Not even Aurors can remove students from the school without proper authority, Mr Perkins," snapped Minerva. "If you're going to arrest Potter, I'll have to—"

"Nobody said anything about an arrest, Headmistress." Perkins grinned.

Severus could remember Perkins rudeness on their last meeting, and his cockiness now did nothing to quell his misgivings.

"These men are Aurors," said Perkins, reaching out to grip Weasley's shoulder. "Right, gentlemen? Their presence is required at the station in order to assist us with our inquiries."

Potter's face cleared. "He's right. We are Aurors."

Hermione was staring at Potter as if he were mentally impaired.

"These students are mere weeks away from their NEWTs!" expostulated Minerva. "Their presence is required in class!"

"It's okay, Professor," said Potter. He was standing straighter, and his voice had assumed the calm tone that seemed to particularly bother Minerva, even at the best of times. Right now she looked ready to strangle him—possibly with Hermione's help. "We're happy to assist. Beside, it's our job."

"That's it?" asked Hermione. "You're just going to go?"

"Yes." Potter reached out and touched Hermione's arm. "I'm ready to help any way that I can." He turned back to Ginevra and gave her a blinding, hero's smile. "See you when I get back, okay?"

"Okay," echoed Ginevra, not looking entirely convinced.

"Let's go," said Potter.

Everyone exchanged looks, but after an uncertain moment, Weasley and Longbottom stepped up beside Potter. The Aurors—all of the Aurors—began to move towards the door.

"Ron, wait!" When he turned towards her, Hermione launched herself into Weasley's arms. Weasley wrapped himself around her, pulling her close and burying a hand in her hair.

Severus felt his jealousy rise to beat against the back of his throat, but didn't let it blind him to the fact that Weasley was nodding. He had to assume Hermione was whispering a stream of instructions into his ear.

"Let's go, Weasley," snapped Perkins.

Hermione and Weasley separated reluctantly. Within moments, the visitors were gone. Longbottom, Weasley, and Potter went with them.

Hermione turned towards Severus, and for a suspended moment in time she met his eye. Severus imagined a parallel universe in which he would open his arms and she would walk in, rest her head on his chest, and draw comfort from his material presence. Instead, she pulled a frustrated face, and headed out of the Hall.

"Everybody back to their seats, now," said Minerva, turning her attention to the considerable group of students who remained poised for battle. Reluctantly, whispering and gossiping, they went.

Shortly afterwards, Hermione sat through his Potions lecture with a stony, distracted expression. The seat beside her, where Potter typically sat, was conspicuously empty. Severus had to call on her directly before she answered even a single question, and then her answer was brief. He considered holding her back after class in order to talk to her, but she packed her bag in record time, and was gone before he dared.

No-one had returned by dinner, and Severus watched Hermione pick at her food. She sat next to Ginny, who talked non-stop; the rare answers Hermione offered were monosyllabic.

Later still, while Severus sat as his desk planning exercises for the final unit of the fourth-year curriculum, there was an unexpected, familiar sounding knock at his office door.

"Come in," he said, his heart in his throat.

The door opened. She stepped just inside the threshold and stood there, her arms crossed tightly over her chest.

"Hi." She met his eye for only a second before busying herself with the jars on the wall behind him.

"Good evening, Hermione."

It felt like a gift to use her name.

"I'm sorry to bother you," she said. "I was trying to study in the Gryffindor common room, without much success. I thought I might stop by and ask if you'd had any news."

Stop by. There were nine flights of stairs between the Gryffindor common room and his office in the dungeon.

"None."

"Okay. Thank you anyway." She looked as if she might cry. With one hand she hitched her satchel higher on her shoulder. "I—"

"Hermione," he said, interrupting her. Gods, but he was using her name recklessly now. She cast another brief glance his way. "You're very welcome to work here if you would like."

"Really?" She took in a noisy breath. "It would be a terrible imposition."

He ignored her comment, noting instead the way her body had leaned in towards him at the suggestion. "Tea?" he asked.

"Please," she replied, and bit down on her lip. She moved, finally, from her spot right near the door and took a step towards the visitor's chair.

He, in contrast, stood up. "Come through," he said, and picking up his work, he opened the door to his lab. By now they had spent many, many evenings together in the lab, most recently on the Wolfsbane project (very close, he was sure, to completion), but also in the lead up to her year on the run. He did not stop, however, but continued on to his quarters. Hermione followed him without comment. As she approached the threshold from lab to living room, her steps slowed. She paused at the door, and for a second he thought she was about to say something, but instead she ducked her head and stepped inside.

Severus had a small writing desk where he dealt with his accounts and sometimes worked. He pointed to it now. "You could work at the desk, the table, the couch." He gestured to each in turn.

"The couch," she said, without hesitation. She slipped off her shoes and sat with her legs tucked up under her.

Severus put his work down on the writing desk and made tea. He knew he was crossing several kinds of lines, but quite frankly, he didn't care. He cared that she was stressed and anxious, and had turned up at his door for help. They drank tea in companionable silence, then turned to their work. Severus positioned himself so that he could look across at her without moving her head. He kept careful tabs of when she was absorbed in her work, and when she stared into the fire. The lines that ran from her nose to her chin were etched deep with anxiety.

After about an hour, his Floo chimed. With a glance at Hermione, Severus crossed to the fireplace and pulled out his wand. He tapped the mantle once to open the connection.

"Severus?"

It was Minerva.

"Come through," he said, reaching down as the flames flared green and helping her step out over the grate.

"Thank you, Severus. Good evening, Hermione." Minerva didn't bat an eyelid at the presence of an eighth-year student curled up on his couch. "No news, then?"

"None," said Hermione.

"Tea? Firewhiskey?" he asked.

Minerva sighed. "Better make it tea," she said.

"What do you think is happening to them?" asked Hermione. She let the scroll on her lap snap shut.

Minerva sighed again and sat herself down at the other end of the couch. "My best hope is that this is nothing more than posturing: that the Aurors don't want to be seen to be doing nothing, so they're throwing their weight around. I fear, however, that something more sinister is going on."

"I don't understand why Harry is so hung up on being an Auror!" burst out Hermione.

"If we haven't heard anything by the end of the day tomorrow," said Severus. "I'll go to the station myself and see what I can find."

Both women turned grateful looks his way. As he walked towards Minerva with her tea, a silver flash entered the room. Instinctively, he pulled his wand, spilling the tea, but Fawkes barely opened one eye before lowering his head back onto his chest and returning to sleep.

"Calm down, down!" Hermione was talking to the Patronus. The silver dog wasn't paying much attention, alternately jumping up to lick her face and racing round the room. "No, stop it! Down! Sit!"

Minerva's face was frozen in a moue of displeasure. Her wand was still out, and her eyes tracked the over-exited Jack Russell. Finally, Hermione convinced the dog to sit; its tail thumped against the leg of the coffee table.

"Good boy," said Hermione, patting the idiotic creature. She rubbed behind its ears, and the dog closed its eyes with pleasure, his tongue lolling out one side of his mouth. "Do you have a message?" she asked. "What's the message, boy? What is it?"

The dog sat a little straighter, and when he opened his mouth, it was Weasley's voice that emerged.

"Bloody hell," it whispered, "I swear Harry's wand is louder than mine! Can't say much—I'm supposed to be using the loo. Just wanted to let you know that we're all fine. Just lots of talking so far. I reckon we should be back tomorrow. Love you, sweetheart. Hang in there!"

"Good boy," said Hermione, rubbing the dog's head. "Good boy!" Moments later, the Patronus dissolved into nothing.

"They swapped wands." The phrase came out midway between a statement and a question. Severus' eyes were on Hermione.

"Yes," she confirmed. "I though that at least that way, if someone does try and disarm Harry unexpectedly there's less chance that they'll gain mastery of the Elder Wand."

"Well done, Hermione," commented Minerva. "And well done, Ronald, for getting a message out."

Hermione ran her hands down her face. "Yes," she said again. "It's good news, right?" She shot a questioning look at Severus.

He nodded. "Under the circumstances," he said, "it's good news. More tea?"

"I should go," she said. "Get some sleep; tell Ginny about the message."

"Give me a minute," said Minerva, "I'll walk up with you."

Hermione packed her work away into her satchel. While she waited for Minerva, her eyes strayed to his bookshelves. It made Severus feel wistful.

It was only once they'd left that he realised the disastrous consequences of having invited her into his space. As he tidied away the teacups and straightened the cushions on the couch she seemed to be always there, in the corner of his vision, watching and observing. He found himself looking at his bookshelves, his furniture, the pictures on his walls, and wondering what she thought of everything, wondering what she thought of him. Finally he gave up the pretence that he might get some more work done and he lay down on the couch, the back of his head lying where Hermione had sat. He closed his eyes and pretended that his head lay on her lap; he imagined her fingers, combing through his hair, the touch of her hand on his forehead.

He ignored the tears that leaked out from beneath his eyelids.

* * *

><p>At breakfast the next day, Severus watched Hermione watching the door. Shortly before the bell rang for class, they were both rewarded: Potter, Weasley, and Longbottom returned, to all appearances whole and unharmed. Severus watched Hermione stiffen, saw her push herself back from the table and head towards her friends, half running in her haste to get there. He saw Weasley catch her eye and push Potter ahead of him, as if to say, "Look, I brought him home safely"; he saw Potter, who had eyes only for Ginevra, stare at Hermione in surprise as she grabbed hold of his robes. He watched Potter ask, "What's the matter, Hermione?", and saw Hermione fall back and shake her head. Her back was to him, and he couldn't lipread her response, but he saw the blank incomprehension on Potter's face and saw her storm away towards the exit. He watched Ron hurry after her. Potter turned to Ginevra, his arms wide in an unmistakable gesture of "What did I do?" Ginevra, for her part, began an explanatory lecture, at which point Severus decided that he'd seen enough. He pushed himself back from the staff table, and headed to class.<p>

* * *

><p>That evening they held an order meeting.<p>

"This is a chance to actually catch the Death Eaters!" Potter was advocating for a Ministry plan to ambush the witches and wizards behind the Hogsmeade attack. "Think about it: if we destroy the wand—as planned—we'll never get a chance to figure out who they are. Right now we know next to nothing about them. The only lead we have is that one of them, now deceased, was a Voldemort sympathiser!"

Minerva gave Severus a long, level look. He nodded, not needing words to understand the message she wanted to convey. He stirred in his chair, but before he had reached his feet, Hermione was waving her own wand over Potter in an unmistakable gesture: clearly she had arrived at the same conclusion.

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, Harry?" From her tone of voice it was evident that she hadn't yet forgiven him for his behaviour. "I'm checking you for traces of the Imperious curse."

He came up clean.

Undaunted by Potter's irritation, Hermione turned her wand on Weasley and Longbottom, who endured her ministrations with better grace than Potter had.

"They weren't trying to attack us, Hermione—"

"You don't have any proof of that, Harry!"

Snape raised a hand for silence and was gratified when both Hermione and Potter complied.

"Mr Weasley," he said, hazarding a guess at the lesser of two evils, "what was your impression of events at the Ministry?"

Weasley cleared his throat. "Well," he said, "the Aurors definitely have a point. The group that attacked us at Hogsmeade were pretty organised. They were prepared to die to keep their secrets, after all. Sooner or later, they'll strike again—even, I reckon, if we do destroy the wand."

Severus didn't disagree with that analysis. "What is your opinion of the plan they propose?"

Weasley rocked his head from side to side, miming a degree of uncertainty. "There are good and bad aspects. On the one hand, publicising our intent to destroy the wand and timing a Hogsmeade weekend for a day or two beforehand is highly likely to draw out any would be masters of the wand. At the same time, it places Harry—and therefore all of us—into pretty serious danger."

Potter moved to say something but Weasley shushed him and kept speaking.

"If we could destroy the wand _before_ the ambush, but keep it secret somehow, we'd be in a better position."

Severus hummed noncommittally and turned to the third: "Mr Longbottom?"

"Head Auror Trickelbank genuinely wants to apprehend the perpetrators. We can't judge the entire office on Perkins."

"Yeah," added Weasley, "Perkins is a complete and utter tosser."

Longbottom gave Weasley a reproving look. "Perkins lost his grandfather to the Death Eaters during the war; they were very close."

"His _grandfather_?" The interruption came from Arthur.

"Yeah," said Ronald, visibly chastened. "Your Perkins. He was singled out as a Muggle sympathiser."

The room was silent for a long moment, broken when Potter sighed.

"No one is doubting," he said, his voice awkward, "that Auror Perkins hates Dark Wizards. He is difficult to get on with."

"Personalities aside," snapped Minerva, "it is the ambush we need to address."

"For what it's worth," offered Weasley, "the plan has Kingsley's support."

"Interesting that you should bring up Minister Shacklebolt," said Draco, leaning forwards from the hips as he inserted himself into the conversation. "As I recall, he suffered from a similar conflict of interest."

Weasley flushed red. "I don't see a conflict," he retorted. "_We_ want to capture the Dark Wizards, and so do the Aurors. If you have a different set of priorities, perhaps you'd better fill us in."

"What are you implying, Weasley?" Two red spots had appeared on Draco's cheeks.

Severus remembered that the two boys had come to fisticuffs in a Muggle cafe.

"What are _you_ impl—"

"Silence!" Severus rose to his feet, adding to the force of his words. "Draco, if you have a point, make it. This is not an arena for personal attacks."

Draco's face contorted as he brought himself back under control. "My point is that these so-called Aurors have already committed to this ambush. We're not actually free to discuss whether the ploy itself is a valid one, merely whether or not we intend to participate!"

The body language of the "Aurors" confirmed the point.

"Listen," said Potter, "Kingsley didn't leave the Order because he was an Auror, he left because he was Minister. There have always been Aurors in the Order: Mad-Eye, Tonks, Neville's parents." Potter punctuated his litany with a broad gesture towards Longbottom. "We're on the same side!"

"How much did you tell them about the wand?" The interruption came from Hermione. She sat with her arms and legs crossed combatively.

Weasley sighed. "Nothing."

"They assumed that we are trying to figure out how to destroy it," added Potter. "We didn't disabuse them of that idea."

Severus came to a decision. "No-one is to reveal—to anyone—that we have discovered a means to destroy the wand. Nor how close we are to success." Jocelyn shifted, but he pressed on. "That is a direct order. You," he said, turning towards the three Gryffindor Aurors, "must work to postpone the ambush as long as possible." He turned again, directing his gaze at Hermione's tightly wrought fury and Jocelyn's palpable anxiety. "We," he said, "will destroy the wand as soon as we can."

* * *

><p>They began the next evening. It started badly.<p>

Jocelyn was nervous and distracted, and in the face of Jocelyn's evident doubts Hermione lost some of her habitual poise. She stumbled through a rather jumbled justification of her choice of piece: she'd wanted something by an English composer, in three parts, relatively simple. She'd chosen something from the Song of Solomon for the focus on love and allegory, a love that was personal—and yet representative of the entire making of the world.

"An excellent choice!" proclaimed Filius, rubbing his hands together in his place on the harpsichord stool. "I took the liberty of transposing the music up a perfect fourth—of course, to the Wizard musicians of the fifteenth century, pitch was entirely relative! Not for them an A fixed at 440 vibrations per second!" He giggled.

Severus glanced down at the music before him. "Quam pulchra es," by John Dunstable. The music looked vaguely familiar, and once they started learning the notes, he realised it was. He thought perhaps every choir in England had sung this at least once or twice. Hermione was right: the piece was easy enough, melodious and fluid. Still, Jocelyn was struggling. Jocelyn had a sweet enough voice, but the musical notation meant nothing to her and she needed to learn entirely by rote. Her difficulties were compounded by her embarrassment. She stood rigidly, her face flushed and her eyes held low. Her frustration sat in the room like an uninvited guest.

After nearly an hour, Jocelyn burst out, "This is never going to work!"

"Don't say that! We just need to learn the notes." Hermione was frazzled by the long, unrewarding rehearsal. Her hair had come loose and stood out around her head.

"No, _I_ need to learn the notes. You've learnt them already." Jocelyn pushed at her music stand in frustration and it tilted enough to scatter her pages beside her feet. "And even once I do learn them, then what? I have no idea how to put magic into the music."

Hermione ran her hands back into her hair, frizzing it out further still. "You just have to _mean it_. That will be enough."

"Perhaps a demonstration is in order?" asked Filius, rising up onto his knees in his enthusiasm. Severus knew just how keen the Charms professor was to see the process in action.

"I . . ." Hermione trailed off, turning to Severus with a beseeching expression.

He shrugged, and swallowed. "We could try," he said, "you and I."

Filius clapped his hands. "Wait! I shall use the viol to fill in the missing line." He leapt nimbly from the harpsichord and ran to ready a stringed instrument nearly the same size as he himself. Once he was seated, his bow tightened and the viol tuned, he looked at them both expectantly.

"Er," Hermione looked sideways at Severus and then glanced away. "Skin contact can help," she said.

Severus took his courage in both hands and crossed the room towards her. He held out his hand and, as her hand slid into his, allowed his eyes to close. He took a deep breath.

"Ready?" he asked, opening his eyes again and looking down at Hermione.

She swallowed. "Yes," she said.

They sang. The sweet chains of thirds and sixths wove bands of sound around the room. His heart swelled to encompass the entire world, even as his sense of place narrowed to the few inches where their skin touched. He felt warm, and safe; his fear of exposure faded into insignificance.

It wasn't that he felt his magic merge with hers, but rather that he could feel the way that they twisted together, stronger in combination than the sum of their parts.

When they stopped, the world around him came back into focus.

Filius had tears on his cheeks. "That was beautiful," he whispered.

"I didn't know that music could sound like that," said Jocelyn.

Severus felt warm still, though the surety of the song was now tinged with worry. He tried to assess his companions, attentive to any nuance that might indicate that his secret was out. They were all wrapped in their own experience; even Hermione looked dazed rather than suspicious.

He was acutely aware of her hand, cradled in his. He forced himself to let go.

"I know you can do this, Jocelyn," said Hermione. "I'm certain of it."

Jocelyn made a noise partway between laugh and sob. "I just have to learn the notes first."

Hermione stepped towards Jocelyn, slightly unsteady on her feet, and pulled her into a hug. Jocelyn buried her head in Hermione's shoulder.

"I know you can do this," repeated Hermione. "I do."

When they drew apart, Jocelyn seemed calmer. Once the plans had been made for the next few rehearsals, she walked with him back to the dungeons. At the door of his office, she hesitated—just long enough that he encouraged her inside with a jerk of his head. Having already broken the fourth wall with Hermione, it was an easy matter to push past the bookshelves and on, though the lab into his apartment. Jocelyn followed, all eyes. In front of the fire she paused only long enough to ease off her shoes, then she climbed into his favourite wing chair and crossed her legs.

"Do make yourself comfortable," he said, teasing her.

She smiled—more at Fawkes than at him. The phoenix had flapped his way from perch to lap, turning circles like a cat before resting his head on her knee and abandoning himself to Jocelyn's caress.

"Tea? Hot chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate, please."

Severus could brew a decent cup of tea, but for the chocolate he sent down to the kitchens. It arrived seconds later and he carried it over to where she sat.

"Thanks," she said. Her head was tilted back against the wing of the chair, and she stroked the little ridge between Fawkes' eyes with one finger. "One day," she said with a little sigh, "one day I hope I have what you and Hermione have."

Severus looked at her under furrowed brows. "And what is it that you think we have?"

"Love," replied Jocelyn as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "I mean, I used to think I had a crush on her. I guess I still do. But when I _felt_ what you guys have, it put everything into perspective."

Severus admired his steady hand. He carried his cup over to the couch without it clattering against the saucer. "Miss Granger and I are not in love, Jocelyn. You know as well as I do that the spell manifests love, it doesn't mean that—"

"Oh, please." Jocelyn interrupted him, one hand waving in the air dismissively. "I know that's the official line, but it's not actually true, is it?" Fawkes clucked at her, subsiding only once her hand returned to his head. "Tracey figured it out when she saw the calculations—"

"I beg your pardon?"

"Don't worry." Jocelyn grinned at him and then sipped at her drink. "At first she did think it was you two, but at the time I thought what she was seeing was my crush. I was quite convincing on the topic."

"Need I remind you that Miss Granger is my student?"

"For about ten more minutes! As she has reminded me several times, the exams are practically upon us."

An odd, strangling panic pressed against Severus' throat. He felt breathless, while Jocelyn sat there, matter-of-fact and unperturbed.

"She has a boyfriend." His voice was curt, limned with anger.

"Yeah." Jocelyn pulled a puzzled face. "What's up with that?"

* * *

><p>AN: That's all, folks. Nothing to do here but leave a review . . .


	28. Chapter 27: Changes

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 27: Changes

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: This one is a long one, involving lots and lots of conversations. Things do progress, my friends!

This chapter is for Very Small Prophet, for noticing Dunstable's particular skill set. :)

* * *

><p>"Ron, we have to talk."<p>

He stiffened. "Not here."

"Where?"

Outside the castle, the Spring rain was cascading. Water ran in rivulets down the windows, poured from the mouths of the gargoyles, sluiced across the courtyards.

"Let's head upwards."

He took her hand and lead her out of the common room, up towards one of the rarely used corridors. There they found an abandoned classroom that had been rather hastily repurposed as an archery range, then abandoned once again. The old desks still stood at one end, pushed together and in some places piled on top of one another. In the foreground, the archery targets were thick with dust.

They cast Muffliato for good measure.

"Okay, let's talk," said Ron, levering his hips up onto a desk.

Hermione wrinkled her nose and pulled out her wand to dispel the clouds of dust. Once she'd cleared a spot on the adjacent desk she sat herself down.

"We need to break up," she said, trying and failing to find an opening that didn't sound like a death knell.

"Not yet," said Ron. "No," he added as she cast her eyes up in frustration. "Seriously. We will—just not yet."

"Ron," she said, drawing out the vowel, "you sound like a smoker who keeps delaying the day when he'll quit."

"A smoker?" he queried, momentarily confused. "Never mind," he said, forestalling an attempt at explanation with an upraised hand. "I know what you're trying to say." He ran the hand over the top of his head and down to the back of his neck where it stayed. "Now is a bad time—no, hear me out! We're planning an ambush. We're going to advertise that the Elder Wand is slated for destruction, and we're going to send Harry out to wander round Hogsmeade in the hope that our attackers re-emerge. Sure, there are going to be highly-trained Aurors stationed all around the village, but he needs the two of us at his back, just like always, keeping him safe."

"Ron," she expostulated, "what does any of this have to do with our love lives?"

"Everything!" He waved both hands in the air for emphasis. "What do you think is going to happen when we break up? You think that Harry—of all people—will just nod, smile, and happily let us segue from boyfriend/girlfriend to best-friends-for-ever without wanting to know what happened? Without questioning us about the whole thing?"

"So? He asks questions. We need to tell him the truth."

Ron turned his face as if she'd slapped him.

"Ron, we have to tell him."

He took a moment before he answered. "What if . . . what if he doesn't want to speak to me? Or doesn't trust me? How am I supposed to keep him safe then?"

Hermione's initial impulse was to dismiss his concern, but she bit back her words. She leant forwards on her arms and rested her head in her hands. She tried to think things through.

_Would Harry reject Ron? Surely not._

But that was it: she couldn't really be sure. Some people were unreasonable about homosexuality, and the trust issue was a legitimate concern. They had, after all, been keeping the truth from Harry for months; even in a ideal world he might feel betrayed.

"Ron," she said, stretching the word as long as her own name. "This is a complete mess."

"As soon as the ambush is over," he said, "I'll tell him. I promise."

Hermione took a deep breath and she thought about other promises, about their promise to be honest with each other.

"It's not enough, Ron." She reached out and put a hand on his knee. "I hear what you're saying about Harry. I do. You don't want to tell him until after this whole situation with the Wand is under control. I see your point. But this is not just about Harry."

She'd surprised him.

"It's also about me. Lately, things with Snape"—she almost said Severus, but the alliteration of his name bought her enough time to make the substitution—"seem different. I used to think I had a crush, a crush on a teacher, now . . . now I think it's something more important." He was still looking intently at her face and she spread her hands wide in a gesture that was both a supplication and an acknowledgement of her uncertainty. "I don't want to pretend I'm in a relationship with you any more."

Ron pressed his hands together and his fingers against his lips.

"Ron?" she asked after a long moment in which neither one of them spoke.

He sighed. "I'm just trying to think of a solution that would work for both of us."

"What? Like break up but not tell anyone? Isn't that what we've been doing this whole time?" She could hear herself sounding a little hysterical, and she forced herself to dial it back.

"No," he said. "We've been _pretending_." He looked up at her. "What if we stop pretending, but don't make a big announcement? We stop holding hands, stop kissing each other hello. If anyone asks, we say we haven't had a fight, or that we're best friends, but we don't confirm to anyone that we're not going out."

Hermione thought about his suggestion. She felt conflicted.

She wouldn't—couldn't—force him out of the closet. At the same time, she didn't want to prolong their pretend relationship. Still less, she was forced to admit, did she want to give up the physical dimension of their relationship. There was a welcome warmth and solidity to his hugs; she felt a comfort in his touch that she didn't have with any other. Was she selfish—or stupid?—to feel this loss so keenly?

Ron cleared his throat. "Harry should be the first to know. We owe him that."

"We should start telling him now." Hermione blew a stray curl out of her face. "Tell him that we think we'd be better off as friends. Break the news in stages so that the big reveal doesn't come out of the blue."

Ron was looking at her intently, trying to figure out exactly what she was trying to propose.

"I respect your desire to tell him after the ambush, Ron," she said. "It's your life and you have every right to time that announcement the way you want. I'm also prepared to adopt your compromise position, to 'not pretend' anymore." She pulled a face, marking the distance between her desire and the proposed solution: she would rather have had a public break up and continued the cuddling. "But I warn you, once we three emerge out of the other side of this crazy ambush, our 'relationship' is officially over."

"Hermione . . ." said Ron, carving out small circles with one hand as he searched for the words to express himself. "I know that it must seem like I'm moving very slowly, but just a few months ago I was determined to carry my terrible secret to the grave. I was determined to carve out a 'normal' life: wife, kids, Ministry job. To never act on my desire. Now—" He paused. "Now I'm considering a public announcement. I've had crazy, hot, violent sex with Draco fucking Malfoy, and if I can only keep Harry alive for the next few months, I intend to quit the ministry for good."

"Maybe breaking up with me will be the catalyst you need." She reached out to him and tucked her hand into the cradle of his elbow. "Right now you spend a huge chunk of your spare time with Neville, and you sneak out to tryst with Draco at least once a week—if you weren't pretending to be in a relationship with me, you might be able to be with one of them in a much more legitimate way."

"I would rather blow gold dust on my private parts," exclaimed Ron, with sudden, unexpected anger, "and leap naked into a niffler pen than have a legitimate relationship with Malfoy."

Hermione rolled her eyes at the vitriol. "Maybe that was the wrong choice of words, but you certainly—"

"I have it on very good authority that I mean less than nothing to him. In fact I'm pretty sure that those were his exact words."

"He said that? When? After your fight in McGonagall's office?"

"No, right after I took my cock out of his mouth."

"Ron!"

"It's okay, Hermione, really. Stupid git won't even admit he's gay."

She raised her eyebrows at him. Surely he could see the irony in that claim.

"Not even to himself," he clarified. "I know I haven't exactly left the closet yet, but I'm not denying that I'm gay while cruising the corridors. Besides, things with Draco are . . . rewarding. Hot, terrifying, like a great Quidditch match followed by a warm shower. But it's not what I want in the long term. I want to kiss Neville like nothing you can believe."

Knowing how much she wanted to kiss Severus Snape, Hermione rather thought that she might be able to believe it. "Knowing Neville," she said, "I can't imagine him making a move on anyone he thought was taken. If you want to kiss him, you're going to have to let him know you're single. Or make the moves yourself."

"I can't!" said Ron, in a strangled voice. "I'm so terrified that he'll react badly. I couldn't bear it if he stopped talking to me!"

Hermione felt a wash of sympathy so extreme that it brought tears to her eyes. She blinked them back and pulled Ron towards her. She leant her head on his shoulder.

"I'm going to miss having you as a boyfriend," she confessed. He put an arm around her. She felt safe in his embrace, and that made her feel overwhelmingly sad. She found herself crying—angry at herself for feeling proprietary, and confused by the strength of her feelings for him. She didn't want him, but she still felt like she was losing him.

"It's okay," he whispered. "Everything is going to be okay."

* * *

><p>"Granger! Hermione!"<p>

Hermione stepped to the side of the corridor and let the stream of students flow past. She waited for Tracey to catch up.

"Hi." The malice was gone from Tracey's face, and Hermione relaxed enough to return the greeting.

"I just wanted to say—" Tracey broke off as Hermione cast Muffliato. "Did Jocelyn teach you that?" she asked, looking surprised.

"No." Hermione stuck to a version of the truth. "I learnt it from a book."

"Oh, I thought that was one of the secret Slytherin charms."

It was Hermione's turn to be taken aback. "Are there many secret Slytherin charms?" she asked.

Tracey grinned. "Now, that would be telling! Listen, I just wanted to apologise for my behaviour the other day. I totally leapt to the wrong conclusion."

"Please, don't worry about it."

"It was poor form. Vector raked me over the coals about it afterwards."

"Ouch." Hermione winced in sympathy.

"It was pretty bad. She told me she was disappointed, and even though she smiled, she managed to look very sad." Tracey tried to imitate Vector's sad smile. "Point being, I was completely out of line to accuse you of impropriety with Snape and I am sorry."

"I won't deny that I do have something of a crush on him," confessed Hermione, secretly pleased at her Slytherinesque choice of words. "Though the closest we've been to sleeping together is adjacent beds in the Hospital Wing."

"Just between you and me," replied Tracey, "I have something of a crush on him myself." She shrugged theatrically. "You could probably say that about every single girl in Slytherin—and half of the boys, too."

The bell rang, and the few students left in the corridors broke into a run.

"Are you headed to see Vector?" asked Tracey.

"Yes. You?"

"Yeah." Tracey jerked her head in the direction of the Arithmancy classroom, and they walked there together.

They talked of inconsequential things: of the looming end of semester, of the final Quidditch matches, of the weather—which was still raining. As Tracey pushed open the door, they were laughing, but they were brought up short by the unexpected sight of Snape himself, seated in the desk nearest to Vector.

Snape, too, looked surprised to see them, though Vector waved them in.

"Come in," she said, "I have just been talking with Severus about the matrix and the ambush."

"Ah." Tracey stepped into the room and slipped into her regular workspace. "Not a long conversation then."

"No." Vector smiled.

Hermione stepped forward and took the desk at which she typically worked. It was the one right next to where Snape sat. She said, "If we had enough information to make the matrix relevant, we probably wouldn't need the ambush."

"Right," said Vector, pulling a rueful face. "If we knew who the assailants were, where they came from, or what their plans were beyond Harry and the Elder Wand, then we'd have a chance of predicting their next move." She turned in her seat and gestured with her wand at the blackboards along the wall behind her. The full calculations for the matrix shimmered into view. "This," she said, "is quite possibly the most sophisticated, multi-dimensional, applied Arithmetical prediction array in existence. It represents years of my life." She paused for a moment, admiring her handiwork. "It was built, however, with a single purpose: to help Harry destroy Lord Voldemort." She turned back towards Snape. "It has proved useful this year because one of the things it was always intended to do was to keep Harry safe. It also contains lots of information about the Order. Unfortunately, against this new enemy"—she shrugged—"we're operating blind."

"I have become accustomed," said Severus, "to you knowing all the answers."

"I'm sorry," said Vector, meaning it. "I wish that I could offer more guidance."

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, then looked towards Hermione and Tracey in turn, his eyes oddly wary. "I shall leave you to your work," he said. "Excuse me."

* * *

><p>It was unusual to run into Severus in the Arithmancy classroom, and the event stuck in Hermione's mind for the rest of the day. It wasn't just the location, she decided eventually, but that he'd seemed . . . apprehensive, thrown off by her arrival with Tracey.<p>

The circumstances were still on her mind when she arrived at his office that evening to work on the Wolfsbane. The back door was ajar, and she looked through to the lab; he was standing at the workbench in his shirtsleeves, laying out the tools they needed to brew.

"Hi," she said.

"Good evening." He glanced up at her through his hair, and she imagined that she caught a glimpse of the same wariness he'd had earlier. "I am hopeful that this variant might prove to be the one."

"Really?" Hermione dropped her satchel by the door. She crossed the room, stopping right beside him and twisting her hair up onto the top of her head; she was standing, she realised, slightly too close. His proximity left her slightly breathless, and she covered her confusion by leaning down to examine the potion in the cauldron before her.

It was the jeridian mixture; the aconite bubbled gently to her left. The control potion—made with the standard Wolfsbane recipe—simmered on the far desk.

"What makes you think this might be the it?" she asked, tilting her head back to look him in the eye.

"Observe," he said, pointing at the surface. "They both display the same spiral of bubbles, yet they're spinning in opposite directions. It's a good sign."

Hermione looked, noting the bubbles he described, and noting too the delicate lines of his tattoo, the fall of his hair against his face, the sharp contrast of his black trousers and white shirt. It wasn't long before they got to work: Snape brewing, Hermione assisting. It gave her ample opportunities to watch. Once they were finished with the experimental potions, he supervised her as she completed the final stages of the control potion—though it was complicated, he had, after many iterations, allowed her to work on them herself.

Then, they were done. On the workbench sat three goblets: one—steaming away—contained the regular Wolfsbane, two others containing the partial mixtures they'd devised sat there innocently. Hermione stood, staring at them, waiting as Snape cleaned up the last of their tools.

She was wound tight in anticipation. "Well?" she asked, looking up at him once he finally finished the clean up and turned towards the table.

"Well?" he asked back. "Go on, mix them together."

His face was unreadable. He stood watching, with his arms crossed, and Hermione wondered if he felt as anxious as she did or completely blasé. She reached out, picked up one half of the mixture, tipping the two together. There was a fizz, and grey fumes boiled out of the mixture to pour out and down the sides of the goblet.

Severus pulled out his wand and called up an analytic spectrum of both variants. The results were identical.

"Well?" she asked again.

"It appears that we did it," he replied. He turned away and walked over towards his files.

Hermione felt at something of a loss. The moment was unexpectedly anticlimactic.

Severus turned back towards her, holding a bright magenta parchment, ink, and quill. "We should register the patent," he said.

"Okay."

Hermione tried not to fidget as he bent his head and filled out the form. When he pushed them across the table for her signature, she saw that he'd put her down as the primary inventor.

"This is wrong," she said. "Your name should be first."

"It was your idea," he said.

"And your expertise," she said, stubbornly. "I never could have worked out how to make the potion."

"And without you, Hermione," he replied, "I never would have thought to try."

It was, she realised, the first time all evening that he'd used her name. She blinked, searching his face for some explanation, then looked down to read over the entire form. She picked up the pen and signed.

The parchment shivered as she lifted the pen from the page. Severus reached over, rubbing the nearest corner together between two fingers. What had seemed like one single sheet separated out into three identical copies, each thin like wax paper and slightly translucent. He gave one to her, put one down on the bench, and folded the other into a paper plane.

"Come," he said, picking up the other copy and carrying the plane towards his rooms.

Hermione followed.

He stopped before the fireplace, activating the Floo connection and sprinkling a generous pinch of Floo Powder into the body of the plane. Then he threw it into the fire. There was a flash of green light, and the plane disappeared. Moments later, there was a pop from the paper in Hermione's hands. Looking down, she saw an official golden seal had appeared on the page. She ran a finger over the embossed coat of arms, and then, slightly self-consciously, over the place where her name appeared beside Snape's.

"What now?" she asked.

"Next, we will need to test the mixture on some willing Werewolves. I suggest that we run an advertisement in _The Daily Prophet_ and in several academic journals asking for volunteers."

Hermione nodded. "So, we wait."

Severus turned his head and looked into the fire. "You will have more time to devote to your studies. After all, the end of semester is approaching."

_Is that what this is about? _Hermione looked at his stiff posture, and tried to read through the silkscreen of his words. Hadn't he noticed that the ongoing rehearsals more than made up for any time that they might lose? _That time is not just the two of you, though_, a little voice whispered.

"Er, I know it's an imposition," she said, hating how awkward and stilted her voice sounded, "but I wonder whether you'd be willing to use that time to work with me on my wandless magic."

"If you wish," he said.

There was a pause.

"What do you wish?" she asked, her heart in her mouth. As soon as the words were said aloud, she had a crazy thought that he might confess that he loved her.

When he turned towards her, there was a twist to his mouth that hurt her heart. "My desires," he said, "are of very little import."

"That is not true," she said. "There must be a million better uses of your time. If you do not wish to do this, Severus, I will not ask it."

There was a moment before he spoke. "I would wish," he said, choosing his words carefully, "that you could defend yourself."

"Okay," she said. She was breathing heavily, and her cheeks felt flushed. She was hyper aware that they were standing in his rooms, that his bed must lie behind one of the three visible doors, that they were negotiating the terms of their relationship in awkward, euphemistic terms.

She looked at the clock above the mantle. "It's still early," she said. "We could start now."

"We could." Severus walked to the couch and picked up a pillow. "Sit," he said, gesturing at the spot she'd sat in the other evening.

Hermione sat, and he placed the cushion before her on the coffee table.

"Give me your wand," he said, and when she handed it over, he placed it on the mantle, well out of reach. "I want you to try to lift the cushion," he said. "Wingardium Leviosa—one of the first charms you ever learned. It will be easier if you do it non-verbally. Try to think about the way you felt when you blew up the Room of Requirement; try to recreate the sensation of accessing your magic without the wand."

Hermione stared down at the cushion. _Wingardium Leviosa_, she thought, but nothing happened. She thought about how she'd felt in the maze. _Betrayed_. It had felt like a physical blow. Like time stopped. She closed her eyes and tried to relive the sensations. _Wingardium Leviosa_. Again, nothing.

She opened her eyes to find Snape watching her.

"It's hard, and frustrating," he said. He crossed to his writing desk and collected a pile of grading. Then sat in the wing chair beside the fire and began to work.

Hermione returned her attention to the cushion in front of her, and tried—without success—for about fifteen minutes. Her magic felt slippery and impermeable. She couldn't catch hold of it. When she'd blown up the room, she remembered, it had risen up inside her like a wall of water.

She suppressed an urge to burst out that it was never going to work. Instead, she asked a question: "How did you learn wandless magic?"

"The hard way," he said. She thought that was the extent of his answer, but then he sighed and went on. "For one reason and another," he said, "my sixth year at school was particularly solitary. I had a lot of time to myself, and little else to do."

Hermione put that into context. "Lily hadn't forgiven you," she ventured.

He shrugged. "That was part of it." He ran his fingers along the length of his quill. "In addition I had had a run in with the Wizengamot over the summer. They let me off with an eighteen-month good behaviour bond, but it ostracised me from many of my peers."

"Eighteen months?" Hermione stared at him in surprise. Draco got eighteen months for being a Death Eater, but that wasn't a particularly politic comparison to make. "But you must have been sixteen years old!"

"You needn't be outraged on my behalf, Granger." His eyes skidded away from hers. "I killed my own father."

Hermione swallowed. She felt a little dizzy. She knew that couldn't be the whole story, but she didn't know how much further he would be willing to go. "How . . ." Her throat was dry, and her voice came out in a whisper. She swallowed again. "How did it happen?"

"I was drunk," he said. "Like every other heart-broken, lonely teenaged boy in my neighbourhood, I had been to the pub. My father, unfortunately, had beaten me home. Then he tried to beat me." His hands were pressed flat on the pile of papers before him. "It wasn't the first time, though it was the first time I fought back." He glanced up at her for a fleeting second. "I hit him, just the once. He died. It was an accident."

Hermione felt a huge wave of emotion rise up in her chest. She wanted to take his head in her hands and to kiss every inch of his face: his eyebrows, the bridge of his nose, the lines at the corner of his mouth. She thought she might explode. She wanted to leap to her feet, but instead she dropped her eyes to the cushion that lay before her. She waved both hands outwards like a dismissal. _Wingardium_—she thought, and the cushion exploded.

"Lift it, I said, not blow it up."

Hermione looked across at him through a cloud of softly drifting feathers. "Sorry," she said. He didn't look angry, though, and in fact his face was less foreboding than it had been for most of the evening.

"You do seem to have a talent for wandless explosions—much like Longbottom with a cauldron."

That made Hermione laugh. Using his wand, Severus repaired his cushion, and summoned her own wand from the mantle. He handed it to her in the old-fashioned way: hilt first, wand over wrist.

"If you leave now," he said, "you'll be back in your common room before curfew."

She went—reluctantly—but she went all the same.

* * *

><p>The next morning Hermione made it down to breakfast before any of her regular crowd. As she walked towards the sparsely populated Gryffindor table, a group of Slytherins caught her eye. She changed her destination.<p>

"Hi," she said, addressing them en masse. "Mind if I join you?"

"Pull up some bench," said Tracey.

"Hi, Hermione! You can sit here," offered Jocelyn, scooting sideways to make room.

Hermione found herself between Jocelyn and Milt, with Draco and Tracey across the way. Chelsea and a sprinkling of other younger Slytherins sat on Jocelyn's other side, while Blaine, Millicent and Theo sat past Tracey and Draco.

"How come you're all alone?" asked Jocelyn. "Where's Ron?"

"He's at the gym, with Neville," said Hermione, serving herself some bacon in honour of her absent friend. "The two of them are trying to master 100 push ups in 90 days. They'll be here any minute, showing off their biceps."

"Those two spend an awful lot of time together." Jocelyn sounded innocent, but she spoke with a slightly overdone nonchalance that rang warning bells for Hermione.

"Neville and Ron?" She took a sip of pumpkin juice and tried to plan a way out of the conversation that didn't require an out-an-out lie—or an outing. "Is that unusual?"

Draco, who watching her under his lashes, magnified the conversational difficulties: "Let me translate for you, from Slytherin into Gryffindor: she's asking whether you're jealous."

"Of Ron and Neville?" Hermione flashed Draco her most confident smile. "Do you think that Ron will be jealous that I'm sitting here talking to you?" She raised her eyebrows, noting the tiny muscles around his eyes contract as he tried to figure out whether her comment was purely rhetorical or whether it contained a reference to secret knowledge. She was, she reflected, getting quite good at this kind of Slytherinesque double-speak.

Though she'd put Draco off, Jocelyn wasn't yet done. "I would have thought you'd end up with someone more intellectual than Ron."

"Ron's not stupid," said Hermione. "Besides," she added, trying to strike away from the particular and towards a more general conversation, "being similar doesn't necessarily make a perfect couple. Professor McGonagall says that couples need to learn to be comfortable with their individual differences and personal strengths."

"McGonagall?" asked Milt, a dubious expression on his face. "She doesn't exactly strike me as an expert at relationships!"

"Don't judge a book by its cover," said Blaine, smirking.

Draco laughed. "Yes, from what my grandmother used to say, McGonagall has seen more than her fair share of action."

"Really?" Chelsea looked both interested and vaguely horrified.

"What year was it?" asked Blaine. "Was it 1962 'till '66?"

"Grandmother always said '63 onwards, but yes—"

"It was definitely five years." Blaine was spinning out the tale, enjoying the fascinated interest of his younger housemates. Hermione felt a little bad about having thrown McGonagall to the lions, but she was relieved that her own love life was no longer the topic of conversation, and then, too, she was curious.

"What?" demanded Jocelyn. "You can't leave it there!"

"Well," said Blaine, stopping to take a mouthful of juice and then to dab his lips with his napkin. "My mother told me, that from 1962 until 1966, there wasn't a female Quidditch player in the British league that McGonagall hadn't slept with."

"No!" exclaimed Jocelyn, turning towards the High table and staring at McGonagall with frank admiration. "But . . . if that's true then she must've slept with Hooch! Hooch didn't retire from the league until 1978!"

Hermione relaxed as the conversation moved on. Even when Ron and Neville turned up, their attention focussed—as predicted—on the size and shape of each others' upper arms, none of the Slytherins around her brought the topic back up. Draco, she saw, watched their arrival through slightly narrowed eyes, but he merely sneered and ate his breakfast.

"You headed to Potions?" asked Tracey as the dining hall began to thin out.

"Yes," said Hermione, "but I might walk over with Harry. I'll see you there."

She gave Jocelyn's hand a squeeze in farewell, and waved goodbye to the table at large. Then she wandered back towards her more regular spot.

"Hey, Harry," she said, interrupting his conversation with Ginny. "You ready for Potions?"

"Yeah," he said, glancing up at the clock with a start and hurrying to gather his things. "See you later, Gin?" he asked, downing the last of his pumpkin juice and snagging an extra rasher of bacon for the road.

"I'll be here at lunch." Ginny waved at them both, and they headed out of the hall.

Things had been awkward between Hermione and Harry ever since his stint at the station. She felt determined to move beyond that.

"Things with Ginny seem good," she said.

"Yeah." Harry gave her a goofy grin.

She had a sudden urge to hug him. Instead, she threaded her arm through his and gave it a squeeze.

In class, Snape had them work in pairs deriving the active ingredients in a mystery potion.

"Don't tell me the answer," said Harry, pulling a sheet of parchment towards him. He flipped to the relevant page in his inherited Potions textbook, muttering to himself as he copied out the formulae.

Hermione watched him for awhile and passed him the various tools he needed when required. The equation was one that she and Snape had used repeatedly in the early stages of their Wolfsbane experiment, and it was oddly comforting to repeat the familiar gestures. She had to bite her tongue, though, not to push Harry by providing him with the answers or telling him what to do before he'd got to the end of the book's instructions.

"Harry," she said when he'd reached the point of bringing the mixture to the boil, "you know that you and Ron will always be my best friends, don't you?"

"I know that," he said, pulling an endearing face. "I know you always have my best interests at heart, too, even when you're being your most officious and annoying."

She backhanded his arm; he grinned. With a careful glance to be sure that Snape wasn't looking their way, Hermione cast Muffliato. Harry raised his eyebrows. "Secrets to divulge?" he asked.

"Not exactly," she said, and shrugged. "I just wanted to say that not everyone who dates in high school gets married and lives happily ever after." She was watching him carefully. She saw his face tighten.

"You think it's too early for me and Gin to get married," he said. He frowned down into his cauldron and pulled on his dragonskin gloves.

"Well, er, I do, actually. I think it's too early for any of us to be thinking about getting married! But I was really talking about Ron and me. You know we'll always be friends, right?"

Harry's irritation dissolved. "You two will never break up," he said, smiling.

"Harry," she began, then hurriedly changed track, cancelling the Muffliato charm as subtly as she could with her wand held awkwardly under the workbench. "Don't forget to divide the result by Atlas' constant to turn it from parts per gallon into a percentage."

Snape was looming over them from behind. He spoke quietly, mere inches from her ear: "Did you think I might fail to recognise the wand movement of a spell I created myself?"

"No, sir." Her eyes were wide, and she felt blindsided by her inability to see his face. Was he or was he not as angry as he sounded? "I confess that I had hoped you wouldn't notice."

"This is my classroom, Miss Granger. I notice everything."

Harry was rigid with surprise, his eyes fixed straight ahead.

"Potter!" Snape snarled. "The potion!"

Harry jumped, and grabbed the cauldron from heat just in time. Small mercies he already had the gloves on, or he would have burnt his hands.

"And what, Miss Granger, did you have to say that requires a privacy charm?"

"Nothing, sir," she replied, lying outrageously and trusting in the fact that he couldn't see her eyes. "I just didn't want anyone else to overhear our working hypotheses."

Snape reached past her and pulled her parchment towards the edge of the workbench with one finger. Apart from her name and the date, the page was blank.

"You have been productive. Tell me, Granger," he crooned next to her ear, "what percentage of this potion is made up of Armadillo Bile?"

Hermione looked down at Harry's notes, reading them upside down and running a rapid internal calculation. "Twelve percent," she said. "Or possibly thirteen—I'd have to solve it on paper to be certain."

He grunted, and she knew she'd gotten it right.

"I'm sorry, sir," said Harry. "Hermione was letting me have a go at figuring it out."

"How magnanimous of her."

Snape moved away enough that Hermione could turn her head and look at his face. He met her gaze and narrowed his eyes. "I should give you detention," he said.

"Cauldrons?" she deadpanned. "Or the dreaded conversation?"

"Eviscerating Cane Toads," he said, "by hand."

"No wand?" She tried to look innocent. "I imagine that might be a bit like Neville with a cauldron."

At that, his lips quirked upwards at the corners—only barely, but enough that her own mouth curved up in response. "Get back to work, Granger," he said. "And keep your conversation on topic."

Both she and Harry bent themselves immediately to the task at hand: he put the cauldron back over the flame, and she took up her quill to notate the equations.

When Snape had retreated to a safe distance, Harry muttered out of the corner of his mouth. "You," he said, half horrified, half impressed, "were flirting with him!"

"Really, Harry," she demurred.

Harry straightened and stared across the room at Snape's back with a bemused expression on his face. "He seemed to like it," he said.

Her face lowered over her parchment, Hermione grinned.

* * *

><p>Hermione stood in the centre of the Transfiguration classroom and cleared her mind.<p>

"Remember, Hermione," said McGonagall, "let the magic move through you. Don't try to shape it."

Hermione nodded, her eyes closed.

Transfiguration was a mental discipline. Typically, the more detail you could hold in your mind, the more precise and convincing the results of your spell. Therein lay the sublime difficulty of the Animagus transformation: until after the first transition, there was no way to predict the animal form, and without knowing the form, the magic was almost impossible to cast. McGonagall had wryly pointed out that the precise, detail orientated witches and wizards who excelled at Transfiguration tended to struggle with the act of surrender that the first transformation required.

"Now, hold your wand against your heart."

Hermione brought her wand to her chest and held it with both hands, flat against her breastbone.

"When you're ready," said McGonagall.

Hermione took several deep breaths. She thought about the spell she needed to cast. She thought about the feel of her body; she remembered the somersaults that Snape had once made her do. She thought about wandless magic and she thought about the magic welling up inside her—an implacable, powerful wall of water. She took a deep breath, and she cast the spell.

The world around her buckled. Her eyes snapped open, and her sight was fragmented into a thousand shards; the colours were brighter and more varied than before.

"Oh, Hermione," breathed McGonagall.

Hermione turned towards the sound of her teacher's voice, but she couldn't seem to bring her into focus. McGonagall looked smaller than she expected.

"You're beautiful."

She tried to reach out to McGonagall; she stepped towards her. The world tilted, and Hermione fell. She seemed to have too many limbs, she couldn't figure out how to balance.

"It's okay, don't worry!" McGonagall's hands were on her, her wand was out. "Just hold still, I'm going to change you back."

* * *

><p>AN: Time for the guesses to begin in earnest! Shall we run odds? Will you leave me a review? Will I be encouraged to write the next chapter or shall it languish forever on my hard drive?


	29. Chapter 28: Flight

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 28: Flight

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Hey there, my friends, I finished this chapter approximately 10 minutes ago, and while I normally let it languish, sorry! I mean **sit** on my hard drive for a couple of days while I stew on it and fiddle with the wording of lots of tiny little passages, it is also true that (1) I've had a terrible few days and (2) I really like bits of this and I'm too excited to keep you waiting long after that gratuitous cliff hanger of the previous chapter. Just make sure you thank me profusely in your reviews! Also, this may mean there are more errors than normal, so be forgiving if you find some terrible grammar or an oddly cadenced sentence!

Without further ado, here is the chapter, which I hereby dedicate to Accipiter, who had the first accurate guess as to the Animagus form in question (posted to the last chapter that is).

* * *

><p>The knock at the door turned out to be Minerva.<p>

"Do you have a moment, Severus?" She leant against his doorframe, an oddly dreamy look in her eyes.

He waved her in. "Drink?"

"Indeed, yes."

He led her through to his living quarters, where she twisted several slow circles in front of the fire. As he poured them each a drink he wondered whether the old cat was about to curl up on the rug, but as he crossed the room towards her, she took the seat with a sigh.

"Cheers, Severus," she said, and took a mouthful. She rested the glass against her cheek and stared past him.

Severus put his drink on the mantle while he shrugged out of his robes and coat. He rolled up his sleeves and settled himself on the couch, his feet stretched out towards the grate. Even this late in the school year the dungeons were cold enough that the flames gave out a welcome warmth. He'd had several more mouthfuls of drink before Minerva gave herself a little shake and turned towards him.

"Severus," she asked, "what do you know about gryphons?"

"About as much as the next man: a solitary beast, famed for its intelligence. Is this about Granger's wand?"

"Not about her wand, per se," said Minerva slowly.

He leant forwards in his chair. "A gryphon?"

She nodded, her face a study in wonder. "A _gryphon d'or_, Severus. In the flesh."

_The golden gryphon_. He sat back and stared—unseeingly—into the fire. "How long?" he asked, after a long moment. "When was the last time—?"

"Not since Godric himself! It's been a thousand years—at least in Britain."

He wanted to see her for himself. He almost asked Minerva to go and fetch her out from Gryffindor tower, just so that he could watch her transformation. But he didn't.

"You mustn't tell anyone, of course!" exclaimed Minerva suddenly, sitting bolt upright at the thought.

He met her eye and she subsided back into her chair.

"There will be plenty of time _after_ this hastily conceived ambush for us to register her transformation with the Ministry."

He raised his glass in a silent toast to her care, and was rewarded with the sight of her dimple peeking out behind her severely pursed lips. She lifted her own glass and they both drank.

"She's going to need to learn to fly. It makes sense to enlist our other resident Animagus—particularly since he's an eagle—but I'm loath to send Hermione and Viktor out over the Forbidden Forest without an escort."

_I can fly_, thought Severus, despising himself for the jealousy that clawed at his heart.

"I wondered whether I could count on you to come with us?"

"Indeed," said Severus, wondering whether Snape plus Krum plus Granger wasn't an even bigger disaster. "Will she take long to master the basics? I'm wondering whether we shouldn't bring Hooch along, too, and even some Quidditch balls. Dodging and catching might be exactly what Granger needs to learn how to navigate three-dimensional space."

Minerva's eyes lit up. "Wonderful! I shall check with Viktor and see what he thinks. We could take Bill along and it would seem nothing more than an impromptu match to those who weren't in on the secret."

Minerva stayed another half an hour or so, her conversation circling back again and again to her wonder at Hermione's transformation. Since Severus could furnish no genuine objection to a celebration of Hermione Granger's many talents, he didn't mind much.

When she finally left, Severus crossed to his bookshelves and searched out his copy of _Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them_, along with _The Monster Book of Monsters_. Once he'd scanned the brief descriptions offered there, he hunted back through the trail of references, reading as much as he could find about gryphons in his rather well-appointed library. He learnt that the heraldic uses of the creature represented a combination of strength and intelligence; that they were as strong as eight lions, or one hundred eagles. He learnt that it was only the female of the species who was graced with the wings and feathers typical of their imagery, and that the males were wingless and covered with spikes. By nature calm, gryphons were ferocious when provoked; and according to the Achaemenids, the gryphon could protect you from evil, witchcraft, and secret slander. It all sounded very much like his Hermione.

He also read that the gryphon mated for life, preferring a solitary existence on the death of their mate, but he tried to pretend he hadn't noticed that bit. It made him feel a little melancholy. Indulgent fantasies of his long life with Granger aside, he had no illusions about their possible future. He just wished that idiot Ronald Weasley had the brains to appreciate the real measure of his good luck.

* * *

><p>The next morning, Severus drank his first espresso as the mail arrived. Several messages came in response to his requests for advertising space, and he was forced to dole out almost all the food on his plate before the owls were content. While most were form letters confirming his request, Marmaduke Shroppley of <em>Ars Alchema<em> had written a proper letter.

_Dear Severus,_

_I was excited to receive your message. What a monumental achievement this represents! The potion modifications themselves are exciting, but most of all, I was impressed by the methodology that you and your co-author developed: to separate the mixture into two inert halves is both elegant and remarkably original. Indeed, I write to inquire whether you would be willing to write up a short descriptive article on the process of the investigation; we would be particularly interested in your assessment of other avenues in which such an approach might improve research outcomes. Let me be perfectly clear: here at _AA _we could not—in clear conscience—accept an article on your Wolfsbane research until the testing process is completed (though we hope you might consider submitting here once the work is finished); the theoretical framework, however, is a different matter._

_Do let me know whether you and your co-author would be willing to consider this request. Were you to complete the manuscript within a twenight, we could almost certainly squeeze it into the next volume!_

_Yours,_

_Marmaduke Shroppley_

_MPot, DPot, PhD (Alch.) Order of Merlin (second class)_

Having finished reading, Severus stared down at the paper for a long moment. Then he rolled it up in reverse and pulled a quill from an inside pocket. On the newly-blank edge of the scroll, he wrote, "Hermione Granger," then he cajoled the nearest owl to hold out its leg. Moments later, he watched the bird swoop down towards the Gryffindor table, where Hermione offered it a mouthful of sausage from the end of her knife.

When she recognised his hand on the letter, her head snapped up—only to drop a second later as she bent to read the message inside. From fifty yards away he watched her face light up with pure, unadulterated delight. She looked up at him again, and the warmth of her smile hit him like a Bludger, knocking the breath from his body. Gods but he was a fool.

Severus forced his attention back to his plate, which he was obliged to replenish after feeding so many owls. He turned his ear to the conversation around him, deliberately parsing the various strands that habitually ebbed around his seat.

Hooch had been ensconced behind her _Daily Prophet_, though she chose that particular moment to lower the paper. "Did you see this nonsense?" she demanded of the table at large, honing in on Severus when she saw that she had his attention.

"To which particular piece of nonsense to you refer?"

She folded the paper in four—a move that required an apology to Filius after she nearly clocked him in the process—and passed it between Minerva and her breakfast.

"You should read that, too, Min," she commented darkly.

Minerva glanced up from her kippers and the latest volume of _Transfiguration Monthly_ long enough to focus on the article in question. "Oh, I read that already," she said dismissively. "It's only a rumour."

"Today it's only a rumour," conceded Hooch. "Mark my words: tomorrow it will be front page news. The Ministry is just daft enough to think a Commemoration Ball a wonderful way to remember how it feels to watch a murderous army unleashed on a school."

* * *

><p>Severus stood back, his shoulders propped against the wall, and watched Jocelyn sing with Hermione. Jocelyn had, eventually, learnt all the right notes, and the two of them together sounded lovely. They were not, however, making magic.<p>

This had become their new sticking point, and Jocelyn was as agitated and defensive as she had been about the singing itself. That, of course, wasn't helping anything—since what she needed to do was manifest unconditional love in sound.

Right now they were trying their parts in pairs: he and Hermione could produce the magic each and every time, but when Jocelyn was added to the mix, they got mere music. Hermione had suggested that if he and Jocelyn or Jocelyn and Hermione managed to feel the magic, then perhaps singing in a trio would become easier. So far it hadn't worked because neither of them had managed to recreate the magic with Jocelyn instead of with each other.

The sight of Jocelyn failing at something only exacerbated Severus' own feeling that he had failed her, so he turned his attention to Hermione. There, he knew, he was living on borrowed time. The sight of her in Vector's office had only reinforced the fact of his impending exposure. Somewhere among the coded sigils, numbers, and runes that covered the many blackboards of that room, his love for her was written clear in a language Hermione could read at sight. Soon enough, she would bother to look.

He skirted away from thinking beyond that moment. He couldn't bear to contemplate the desolation he knew it to hold.

Over the last few weeks their friendship seemed to have reached a new level. He liked the fact that she'd come looking for him when Potter was away, liked that they were still working together on the Wolfsbane material, liked that she'd asked him to keep up the wandless magic lessons. By happy coincidence he now saw her almost every evening—with Order meetings, singing rehearsals, wandless magic lessons, and soon flying lessons, too. He couldn't restrain a little frisson of delight at the prospect of her Animagus form.

It was this near constant interaction, perhaps, that was responsible for a new familiarity, a new depth of freedom in their interaction. Astounding—almost absurd—that he had talked to her about his father; remarkable that their comfortable, teasing conversation had spilled out from the lab and into the Potions' classroom. For better or worse there was very little left of the "teacher" and the "student" in their relationship. What they felt like now, was friends.

Standing in the music room, with song in his ears, Severus let himself wonder—just for a second—what it might be like if he somehow made it through this year without Hermione finding out how he felt. Might they still be friends? Might she drop in to visit him, even after she had left the school? The possibility appeared in his mind like a string of golden drops of Felix Felicis, sprinkled out over the endless mundanity of the rest of his life.

_Don't get your hopes up_, he told himself, squashing the thought. _Else the disappointment will crush you_.

* * *

><p>When Severus walked down through the gathering dark to the Quidditch pitch, he found Hooch already there. She was standing out on the field, twirling a beater's bat in a pattern familiar from years of warm-ups and training sessions. In her hands, it looked like a martial art: the bat spun faster than his eye could follow, and she'd added a dancing foot pattern that kept her up on the balls of her feet, like a boxer.<p>

"Knocks?" she called inquiringly as he bent to rummage for the other set.

"Only if you slow your tempo by at least half," he replied. He'd found the other bat and he took a few warm up swings of his own. He'd been a decent player in his day but Hooch—despite being more than twice his age—always made him look like an amateur.

"Evening all," said Bill Weasley, as he and Krum emerged out of the darkness, brooms in their hands. "I can't wait to get airborne," he added. "It's been too long."

"Perhaps you can play knocks with Hooch," said Severus. "She's trolling for an opponent."

"Hell no." Bill turned and regarded her exercises with frank admiration. "I've got papers to grade and an exam to write. I can't afford to spend my next few weeks recuperating in the Hospital Wing."

"Nonsense," grunted Hooch, still twirling and spinning. "I've got a special bat for when I'm playing to the death: don't want to get bloodstains on the school set. It's not the done thing."

"I will play a round," offered Krum.

Severus held out the bat and the other man took it, weighing it in his hand. Severus went to retrieve his broom from where he'd left it beside the kit bag.

"I didn't think you needed a broom," commented Bill. His voice was neutral, and in the dark Severus wasn't sure whether the question was aggressive or merely curious.

"I don't need a broom to fly," said Severus. "But I do need one to play Quidditch." He'd experimented early on, but without a broom the balance was completely different; it made the moves of the game itself very difficult.

Krum had begun to swing his own bat, slowly at first, but with increasing speed. He called back over his shoulder, "I would like to see you fly without a broom."

Severus made no reply.

"Threes!" shouted Hooch. She and Krum moved towards each other, beating out a rapid rhythm in sets of three, switching between groupings from right to left.

"Sixes," he shouted back, and the rhythm switched.

"Twos!"

"Fives!"

"What are they doing?" Under the noise of the exercise, Hermione had come up alongside him. Minerva had arrived, too, and was watching the contest with evident delight. Hooch was the better, more experienced Beater, but Krum was young and fit, and his reflexes were lightening sharp.

"It's a training exercise for Beaters." Severus looked down at Hermione, noticing her crossed arms and the slight wrinkle between her brows. He put a hand on her elbow and turned them both away from the rowdy group. "What's the matter?" he asked.

She screwed her eyes shut. "I hate flying," she said after a moment. "I'm terrified of heights."

"Ah." He searched for the right thing to say. "In all the time I have known you, Hermione, you have never been less than courageous."

She shot him a glance that told him just how unhelpful he was being.

"I will have my wand with me the entire time," he said. "If you were to fall, I would catch you."

"Promise?"

"I swear it," he said, pressing one hand against his heart.

She gave a weak laugh and ran one hand over her face. "My dad always says that the art of flying lies in the ability to throw yourself at the ground, and miss."

"Douglas Adams?" he asked, raising an eyebrow. She did laugh then, and the sound wound warm around his heart.

He glanced back over at Hooch and Krum, who had reached an almost maniacal cadence in their game. "They will be ready to begin, soon," he said.

Hermione nodded. "I'm okay," she said, and walked over to stand beside Minerva.

When Hooch finally caught Krum out, they were both laughing, and dripping sweat. Minerva conjured them each a towel, and she and Krum had a quiet conversation about the plan of Hermione's lesson.

"Once she get's the hang of her new body, the flying will be easy," said Krum, placing a hand on Hermione's shoulder that was clearly intended to be reassuring. Hermione's expression indicated that she wasn't very reassured.

"Alright then, Hermione," said Minerva. "Let's do the transformation now, and Viktor and I will help you locate your body—"

"No," she said. "I want it to be Snape. You and Snape."

Minerva blinked. "Okay." She turned to Severus. "You know the theory, I presume?"

"I'm a fast learner," he said.

"It's simple enough," Minerva replied. "I can show you once we start."

"Don't forget to keep your eyes relaxed," said Krum to Hermione. "If you try to focus, you'll see very little and everything will be distorted."

Hermione nodded.

"Once you're ready to take off," he added, "do a few short little flights just to check you've got an idea how to land. After the little flights, though, make sure you fly high—that way you'll have plenty of room to manoeuvre while you're figuring out turns."

She nodded again, and Krum clapped her on the shoulder.

"I'll leave you to it," he said.

Minerva fussed around Hermione for a few minutes, finally stepping back to give her space to transform.

Hermione stood with her wand pressed flat against her chest, her eyes closed. Severus watched as the last of several deep breaths seemed to swell her chest beyond the realm of the possible. The air around where she stood seemed to stretch, her body distorted, and all of a sudden, Hermione was a gryphon.

Severus stared.

She was bigger than he had expected—even crouched on all fours, her back was as high as his head—and she was absolutely, utterly magnificent. Her leonine back half was taught and lean; feathers sat around her neck like a mane. Both fur and feathers were a golden, coppery colour, while her eyes—though enormous—were the same golden brown that they always were.

Severus felt awestruck before her. She was turning her head, one side to the other, and he realised that she was trying to look at him. The dim light glinted off her beak and he shuddered, overcome by the deadly power of the animal in front of him.

"Marvellous, isn't she?" Minerva stood beside him, her face glowing with admiration, and her eyes fixed on Hermione. Severus had a very visceral understanding of the ancient Egyptian tendency to gryphon worship: Hermione was mesmerising. "This is where we come in," she said. Minerva walked towards Hermione, holding out her hands, palms forwards. "Hermione," she said, "hold still. I am going to touch your front legs."

Minerva placed her hands on the scaly skin of Hermione's front legs. "This is your left front leg," she said, running her hands down the leg from top to bottom. "This is the front, here is the knee, here are your claws." As she named each part, she ran her hand over it.

"In this form," she commented over her shoulder to Severus, "Hermione has more muscles and more body parts than she has as a witch. She needs to learn the connections between her brain and her body. It's our job to help her match the two together."

Severus stepped up to Hermione's right side, and looked up into her giant eye. "Hello, Hermione," he said quietly. He reached out, and placed one hand on the feathers of her shoulder. He placed the other on the top of her leg. "This is your shoulder," he said. "This is the join where your leg joins to your ribs."

It felt like a benediction.

Slowly and carefully, Minerva and Severus worked their way over Hermione's new body. When Minerva got to Hermione's tail, it snapped back. The tufted end curled just out of reach.

Minerva laughed. "I never had any difficulty moving my tail, either," she said. "I feel like it's controlled entirely by emotions."

They finished with her wings, starting at the shoulder joint and working their way along until they held the far tips out from Hermione's body. The span was enormous.

"Can you feel that?" asked Minerva. "Can you feel the muscles that move them?"

Hermione bobbed her head.

"We'll stand back," said Minerva. "You try and flap them under your own steam."

Severus felt reluctant to move away from the fierce warmth of Hermione's strange new form, but he did as directed.

Hermione pushed herself up into a seated position and unfurled her wings. Awkwardly at first, and then in a slow, smooth rhythm, she beat them. Minerva had to grab hold of Severus' arm in order to stay upright against the wind they made.

The force pulled Hermione's forefeet from the ground, but she stopped before she took off, folding her wings flat once again against her back. Using her beak, she fussed with a feather that didn't lie quite straight. Confronted by her sheer, awe-inspiring magnificence, it seemed almost impossible that she might be nervous or worried, and Severus had to remind himself of how unwilling the woman he knew was about flying.

"Give me a moment," he said to Minerva, levering her fingers from his bicep.

He walked over to Hermione and stood right beside her shoulder. Giving into temptation, he put his hands upon her and leaned against the comforting wall of her chest. "The gryphon in you knows how to fly," he whispered. "Just trust your body: it won't let you down."

Hermione ducked her head, and he felt her muscles ripple under her skin.

"And remember," he added, "I'll be right here if you need me." For a second, just the merest second, he let his forehead rest against her; then he pulled away. He walked back over to where Minerva was waiting; he stood, and watched.

Hermione took a handful of deep breaths. Then, she extended her wings and levered herself into the air. At first, as directed, she made a series of tiny flights—more like wing-assisted jumps than actual flying. Indeed, after the first few, she alternated between leaping into the air, her wings balanced wide, and lifting herself from the ground using her wings. It was the kind of exercise that might have looked ridiculous—except that her size, her grace, and the lethal force of her body rendered it beautiful.

"Look at her," marvelled Minerva, "she could kill a man soon as look at him." He turned sharply to look at her face. "If she wanted to, of course," she added hastily.

"Minerva," he said, glancing from her to Hermione and back again, "if size correlates to power, then how come . . ." He faltered, suddenly aware of the poor manners of his question.

"Bless you, Severus," replied Minerva, chuckling. "The age of first transition is a big factor, too. My mother," she said, with a fond and slightly self-deprecating smile, "couldn't, for the life of her, figure out how I managed to climb out of my crib."

"How old were you?"

"Four months, give or take. The way my mother used to tell the story, she'd leave me bundled up, only to return moments later and find me curled in front of the fire."

They had been watching Hermione as they spoke, and at that point, beating her wings harder and faster than on any previous attempt, she took off into the sky. Hooch and Weasley let out a cheer of approval as she lifted up past their came of catch; Krum, who was flying around in eagle form, flew towards her, circling around her head. Krum looked tiny in comparison to Hermione, but his presence at her side and the squawks the two animals were making kicked Severus' jealousy back into action.

"Let's join them," said Minerva. "I haven't flow in a twelvemonth!"

They collected their brooms and flew up to join the others. Hermione was practicing circles.

"Hermione!" called Minerva. "Say yes!"

Hermione let out a guttural bird noise.

"Say no!"

The noise was very similar.

"Did anyone other than Viktor hear a difference? No? Alright, Hermione, one squawk for no, two for yes, okay?"

Hermione squawked twice.

"Spend another five minutes or so getting accustomed to your body, then we'll start throwing around one of the Quaffles and you can try catching and dodging."

Krum was demonstrating aerial moves for Hermione: pulling in his wings to dive, spinning sharp spirals, dipping one wing to turn as tightly as possible. As Severus watched, she experimented with a dive, pulling out after only a couple of seconds. She regained the height she had lost only to dive again—but this time dropping down, down like a meteor towards the ground. Heart in his mouth, Severus turned his broom to keep his wand on her, relaxing only as she pulled out at about 100 feet and soared back up into the heights.

"She looks ready to me," commented Hooch. She pulled her bat from where it hung against her stirrup. "Oy, Weasley! Toss me that Quaffle." Weasley lobbed the Quaffle into the air, and Hooch whacked it with her bat, sending it arcing out across the open space of the pitch.

For a few seconds, Hermione tracked it with her head, then she dove, snatching the ball out of the air with pinpoint accuracy, and gliding back to drop it a few yards over Hooch's head. Hooch swung at it, then checked herself, laughing.

"Got it," said Minerva, pointing her wand at the deflated ball. Summoning it to her, she repaired and re-inflated the Quaffle, then she tossed it back to Hooch, who sent it flying once again. "Hunting instinct," commented Minerva indulgently.

It took Hermione about five attempts to catch the ball without destroying it in the process, but she didn't have the slightest difficulty calculating exactly where or how to catch it, nor in navigating around the sky. Within half an hour Hooch had assigned herself and Severus to the roles of Beater, leaving Krum (back on his broom), Weasley and Minerva to toss around the Quaffle. Hermione was able to dodge the Bludgers with ease, and able to catch, drop and intercept the Quaffle, though she couldn't throw the ball in any reliable way. The Snitch also gave her some trouble: she spotted it within seconds, and flew to exactly where it was; it was just too small for her to catch, wriggling out from between her claws.

Eventually, with the bell on the clock tower chiming midnight, Minerva called a halt to proceedings.

"We should do this again!" said Weasley. "I haven't had such fun in months."

As Severus began a slow, curving descent towards the ground, Hermione swooped up beside him and cawed twice.

"Yes, what?" he asked, lifting the nose of his broom to level and looking at her inquiringly. She pulled in her wings and rolled, then ducked under his broom to hover on the other side. Tilting her wings back and beating them rapidly, she managed to back up several yards.

It seemed like an invitation, though Severus wasn't sure he wasn't misreading things. He cocked his head, hesitating. Hermione cawed again, twice. Throwing caution to the wind, Severus swung his leg over his broom, then, leaving it hovering in midair, he dived out into space. Hermione made a noise that sounded like delight, and she dove with him. They tumbled and twisted and turned through the air, curving in and around each other as they wove like ribbons through the dark sky.

It was only when Minerva called up that she was leaving, and that Hermione had to transform back there and then so that she could supervise, that they came into land.

Severus landed on his feet at some distance from the crowd of his colleagues, wanting a few moments to school his face before having to make small talk with Krum about broomless flight. He turned immediately, though, so as to watch Hermione land.

She touched down lightly about twenty yards away, hind legs first, wings tilted back. Once grounded, she ran towards him. He froze, certain that he was about to be trampled by an onrushing gryphon, only to find that it was a human Hermione who collided with him, grabbing hold of upper arms to keep her balance under the force of the impact.

"Did you see?" she asked, eyes wide and delighted, her hair a windswept mane around her head.

"Yes," he said, overwhelmed by her smell and her proximity and the golden lights of the lanterns reflected in her curls.

"I could see the air!" she said. "I have always feared the nothingness of space, but as a gryphon, my eyes can see it! The currents, the give and take, the resilient materiality of it! It's like water, except I can breathe!"

He nodded. "Yes," he said again. She was holding his arms, her body close against his, her head tilted back to look up at his face.

"And do you know how a gryphon thinks?"

"No." He shook his head.

"In Arithmancy! Every flight is a calculation made in terms of velocity and force and arc and curve! It was amazing! I knew exactly where I was going and what I was doing!"

"Yes," he said, yet again. He wondered whether he would ever again move beyond monosyllables.

"Thank you, Severus," she said, and hugged him.

To hug him she wrapped her arms around him and squeezed, filling his face with hair. He didn't even have time to breathe before it was over. Then she ran towards Minerva and hugged her, too.

"Thank you! Thank you!"

She hugged everyone, and Severus tried to tell himself that her hug had meant nothing more than thank you. But it didn't feel like that.

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><p>AN: REVIEW = LOVE 3 3 3


	30. Chapter 29: Two Steps Forwards

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 29: Two Steps Forwards

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: I forgot to say at the end of the last chapter (in my rush to post!) that there were seven words—these seven words, in fact: " a solitary beast, famed for its intelligence"—lifted with all respect from one of Steggie's reviews. There was also a bunch of information about gryphons that was happily plagiarised from wikipedia.

Thank you so much, everyone, for all of the lovely reviews on the last chapter: they did their job, fed my muse, etc., to the point that once again, in less than a week, I have another chapter for you! I know, I know, you can thank me in the reviews ;)

This chapter is for three people—not because they don't all deserve a chapter each, because they do, but more because I'm starting to run out of chapters! First, for biggerthanthis, for his/her v. thoughtful review, second for Lifeasanamazon, who always has something lovely to say, and third, for arynwy, mostly for being amazing but also in consolation for her very bad day (which luckily turned out okay in the end).

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><p>Hermione woke with a smile on her lips and the memory of flight thrumming through her body. As she went about her morning routine, her pleasure and her secret sat on her like a skin. How could Lavender and Parvati not notice? How could they shuffle, bleary-eyed around the room and not see that she was a changed woman? That she could dive across the sky on her own wings and snatch up moving targets with her strong claws?<p>

Hermione ran into Ron in the common room. She wanted to hug him and to walk down to breakfast arm in arm, but she didn't. She wanted to babble at length about her wonderful new discovery, but she didn't. Instead, they walked down to breakfast at a decorous distance—like friends might—and she tried not to skip and sing and shout with joy.

Everything along the way seemed brighter and more beautiful.

"Look at the blossom, Ron!" Soft clouds of colour filled the courtyard with heady perfume.

"You seem happy this morning," he said, responding to her exuberance with a tolerant glance.

She smiled. "I could eat a cow," she said as they walked into the Great Hall, "I hope they have steak."

Hermione made it through double Muggle Studies, too distracted by the events of the last twenty-four hours to concentrate properly; every time she thought about flying she felt giddy. Once class was finally done, she crossed her fingers that Vector would be awake, and headed to the Arithmancy classroom.

Vector was there—in an elaborately frogged silk smoking jacket worn over tracksuit pants. There was a branch of the cherry blossom in a vase on her desk.

"Coffee? I'm really not going to be very coherent until afterwards, so you might as well have one, too."

"Yes, please." Hermione sat herself on the chair by Vector's desk and tried to suppress her excitement while she waited for the brikki to boil.

Once Vector had poured them each a cup, she opened her mouth to speak, but Vector held up one hand. Only once she was finished did she smile encouragingly.

"You have news," she said.

"Yes," agreed Hermione. Her eyes skipped sideways to where she knew the matrix to be hidden, but Vector laughed.

"No, my dear, I have not predicted this conversation—I was merely making inferences from your body language. Go ahead and tell me while I make myself another coffee."

"Well," said Hermione, casting around for where to begin. "I managed the transformation: I'm an Animagus."

"Congratulations!"

"We're keeping it a secret right now, to everyone except a few Order members. Until we get the Wand destroyed it's probably best to have a card or two up our sleeves."

"Indeed," said Vector, nodding as she stirred her brikki. "May I ask what animal you became?"

"Yes." Hermione tried and failed to smother an excited grin. "A gryphon. A golden gryphon."

Vector's head snapped up, and she stared at Hermione. "The _gryphon d'or_? Oh, bugger—" The hissing of her coffee pot demanded Vector's complete attention for several seconds. She snatched the brikki from the flame and poured the coffee into her cup.

"Hermione," she said at last. "That is incredible."

"Thanks." Hermione gave up trying to look modest. "The most wonderful thing," she added, desperate to share her new knowledge with the one person who would truly understand, "is that the gryphon thinks in Arithmatic equations."

"Really?" Vector leaned forwards.

"Yes." Hermione nodded, and hurriedly acquisitioned some paper from the pile in Vector's scrap tray. "I was terrified of flying, but once I tried, I realised that it was all mathematical equations. Look." She began to sketch numbers and curves on the paper before her. "My presence functioned as a moveable graphic nexus, and everything else shifted around it. Say I was here, and wanted to move to here,"—she pulled her wand and flipped her page into four-dimensional graphic space—"then I knew that I had to transform my equation—like so—making account, of course, for wind speed, and for gravity which can be expressed as a constant—like so—and thus . . . " She solved the equation, and the graph shifted. "You see?"

"Yes," breathed Vector, drawing her own wand from where she'd stuck it behind one ear, and transfiguring the little red dot that Hermione had used on the graph into a tiny golden gryphon.

Hermione laughed. "When I saw a ball move across the air, or someone flying on a broom," she said, the words tumbling over each other in her excitement, "I understood their movements as formulae." She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "It was so beautiful inside my head: understanding everything in numbers the moment it happened, without having to think it through or calculate everything!" She gestured at the graph before them. "I feel so slow now in comparison, having to notate it on paper rather than just holding it in my mind."

"Amazing." Vector replayed the graphical shift. "Such an elegant solution," she said, nodding appreciatively. "I can't wait to see you in action."

"Maybe you could come to a training session? Or after this whole mess with the wand is over, I could take you out to the forest and I could show you."

"I would like that, Hermione," she said. "I would like that very much."

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><p>At the end of the day, Hermione had a Transfiguration lesson with both McGonagall and Krum. Though she changed back and forth between the two forms several times, most of the lesson was a discussion about pragmatics. McGonagall and Krum talked about their experiences interacting with animals while in their Animagus forms, and about the ways in which their forms affected their lives as humans. They talked about wandless transformation, about involuntary transformations—most common when the animal form was under a lot of stress and accidentally switched back to human form—and about the difficulty that beginner Animagi sometimes had reverting to their human form. They also talked about their experience spying as Animagi during the war. At the very end of the class, Hermione practiced a couple of transfigurations without her wand: to her surprise, she was able to do it quite easily—and she didn't blow anything up. So far, despite several evenings of practice with Severus, this counted as the only wandless exercise in which nothing exploded.<p>

"Where are you headed?" asked Krum as he pulled the door of the Transfiguration classroom shut.

"Common room," replied Hermione.

"I'll walk you there."

"Okay," she said, her head tilted slightly to one side. Unless he had business in the Owlery or the Astronomy Tower, that was about six staircases out of his way.

He walked beside her without saying anything, his hands tucked into his pockets, taking the same, slightly duck-toed steps as a human that he did as an eagle.

When they reached a deserted stretch of corridor, Hermione stopped. "What is it?" she asked, as he turned towards her.

He shrugged. "It's ironic," he said, "that all this year Minerva has been keeping you and me apart, afraid that we might create some scandal—or that someone might rake up a scandal—even where none was to be found."

"Why is that ironic?" asked Hermione her heart beating loud enough that she wondered whether Viktor could hear it. She shifted the strap of her satchel where it was digging into her shoulder.

She'd been careless last night, she realised, which in and of itself was ironic: here she was being accused of impropriety—when she'd been so, so careful not to throw herself at the man in question.

"You should put a 'Hang Right' charm on that," Krum said, nodding at the offending strap.

Hermione said nothing, raising her eyebrows at him in an encouragement to get to the point.

"I didn't mind staying away," he said. "Away from you, that is. I . . . I very much like this job. I did not want screw it up by creating scandal—whether true or not. Besides," he added, "you had a boyfriend." He paused. "Do you still have a boyfriend?"

"It's complicated," said Hermione, "and not really any of your business."

He held up his hands, palms out. "I know. I'm sorry. I do not mean to offend you."

Hermione looked over her shoulder, checking that the corridor was still clear. "What are you trying to say?" she asked.

"I am just worried about you," he said. "Snape is . . . an intelligent and brave man. But he can also be very, very cruel. I do not want you to get hurt."

"I am not in a relationship with Snape," said Hermione. She stared at him, willing him to believe her. "We have what you might call a close working relationship. It's been nearly three years that we've been working together. If we hadn't figured out a way to get along, we would have killed each other long ago."

Hermione was quite proud of her explanation, for none of it was a lie. Viktor, however, raised an eyebrow. "I have noticed the way you look at him," he said gently. "I spent too long wishing you might look at me that very same way not to recognise it when I see it."

"Viktor," she said, at loss for words. "I'm sorry about us—but this has nothing to do with that."

"Don't be sorry," he said. "Because of you I had a role to play in the war, ultimately because of you I have this wonderful job." He rubbed a hand on his fussy little beard. "Just remember that if you need me, I'm here."

"Thanks," she said. She felt like maybe she should hug him, perhaps even just to reassure him, but just the idea felt horribly awkward. So instead she said, "It's nice of you to look out for me, but I honestly don't believe that you have anything to worry about."

She continued on to the common room, leaving Viktor standing in the hall.

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><p>Hermione managed to squeeze in only a couple of hours of exam revision before the Order meeting. The time had been changed so that the Gryffindor Quidditch team could practice in the evening—since Slytherin had defeated Hufflepuff by four hundred and sixty points, Gryffindor had to beat Ravenclaw by at least three hundred and eighty points to win the cup, and they were training like crazy.<p>

In McGonagall's office, she found a seat next to Jocelyn.

"Hey, Hermione." Jocelyn looked tired.

"Hi. You okay?"

"Yeah, fine." She raised one shoulder defensively, and Hermione would have pressed her had McGonagall not called the meeting to order.

"The plans for the ambush are set," said Harry, standing up to address everyone. "There will be nearly sixty Aurors stationed in the village this Saturday during the school visit—some in plain clothes posing as shoppers, crack snipers up on the roofs, and others concealed under Disillusionment charms. We will also have as many members of the Order on the ground as possible—all of those associated with the castle will be able to be there as themselves without attracting suspicion; the rest will be Disillusioned. I will be accompanied at all times by Ron, Hermione, Ginny and Neville. That group will look natural enough. We will stick to the least populated areas of the village—both in an attempt to draw out our enemy, and as a way to minimise bystander involvement. Rita Skeeter's article about the planned destruction of the wand will should run tomorrow; and the Hogsmeade weekend was announced nearly a month ago. This should be enough motivation to convince our enemy to attack."

Hearing the details of the plan gave Hermione no real reassurance. There were a million opportunities for something to go wrong.

"That gives us just five days to destroy the wand." Harry turned towards Hermione. "Do you have an update?"

"Yes," said Hermione, rising to her feet as Harry sat down. "I'm happy to say that we have now committed the music to heart. We are very close to attempting the spell."

"Wonderful news!" said McGonagall.

Hermione was uncomfortably aware of Jocelyn's scowl in the seat beside her.

"When do you think you will make the first attempt?"

"Friday," said Jocelyn. "Not till Friday."

Hermione knew that Jocelyn was trying to delay the inevitable, but it wasn't worth arguing publicly for an earlier attempt. "Yes, Friday," she said, nodding as if that were the pre-agreed time. She sat back down.

There was an expectant pause during which everyone looked around to see who else had something to say.

"Any further business?" asked Snape.

After several beats of silence, he dismissed them all, and the room erupted with the scrapes of chairs against the floor and a number of conversations. Hermione took advantage of the noise to lean in towards Jocelyn. "Let's take the scenic route to dinner," she said quietly.

"Sure," said Jocelyn, shrugging. She got up, and followed Hermione out onto the moving stairs.

"This way," said Hermione at the bottom, taking Jocelyn by the elbow and steering her as if they were headed for the library, but then turning off to duck up a narrow twisting staircase. At the top was a short hall that led to a large window. Long ago Ron and Harry had discovered that if you opened the window and stepped out, a conveniently placed chair provided a step up onto an otherwise inaccessible piece of roof. The roof itself was fenced in by a stone parapet and provided a relatively safe and well-hidden meeting place.

Hermione herself had only been once—and then had nearly had hysterics during the rather terrifying moment when she'd stepped onto the chair. But with her new knowledge about the substantial properties of air, she let Jocelyn across with only a minor shortness of breath and just the teensiest bit of nausea.

"You going to tell me what's wrong?" she asked once they were seated on the roof, their backs propped on the parapet.

Jocelyn rolled her eyes. "You know what's wrong," she said. "I can't do the singing magic!"

"Why can't you?" asked Hermione, regarding her friend carefully.

"I don't bloody know, do I?"

Hermione reached out and put a hand on Jocelyn's shoulder, but she shrugged it off.

"You seem really . . . angry at me. Are you?"

"What? No!" Jocelyn put her head in her hands. "I'm sorry. I am feeling angry, but I'm not angry at you, not really."

"Okay," said Hermione. She watched Jocelyn for a little while, then added, "Hold out your wand hand."

Jocelyn looked up at her warily. "Why?" she asked.

Hermione made no reply, holding out her own hand and waiting. Rolling her eyes again, Jocelyn complied. With Jocelyn's hand held between both of her, Hermione sat up on her knees. She started to massage Jocelyn's palm.

"What are you doing?" asked Jocelyn tugging slightly against Hermione, though not quite hard enough to pull her hand from Hermione's grip.

"Well, when my magic was depleted, sympathetic touch restored it. I know that your magic isn't depleted, Jocelyn, but since sympathetic magic is what we're trying to achieve, I thought this might still help." Hermione concentrated on all of the love she felt for Jocelyn: her strength, her stubbornness, her "Mudblood Pride" campaign.

"This is silly," said Jocelyn, but she stopped pulling at her hand, and Hermione wasn't convinced that she meant it.

"Oh, shut up," she said, and continued the massage.

Hermione massaged Jocelyn's hand, up along her arm, across her shoulders and down the other arm to finish at the tips of her fingers. At the end, Jocelyn regarded her with less aggression than she had showed earlier in the afternoon.

"Jocelyn," said Hermione, "I am so happy to have you in my life."

Jocelyn looked at her as if she didn't believe a word of it.

"I'm serious, you idiot." Hermione stood up and brushed off her knees. They were stiff from the kneeling and she pulled a face as she straightened them out. "Now come on, we'll miss dinner completely if we don't go now."

They went, and they ate their dinners at separate tables. Hermione spent her time wondering what it would take for the three of them to break through to the sympathetic music they needed to make.

* * *

><p>After dinner, Hermione went to Snape's office to work on their methodology paper. For nearly two hours, they worked companionably. They sat either side of his office desk: outlining the paper, divvying up the sections, drafting and correcting each others' work. Finally, Severus laid his pen aside.<p>

"It's getting late," he said. "You should go now or you won't make it back before curfew."

Hermione nodded and packed her notes into her satchel. Then she fiddled unnecessarily with the buckle for about forty-five seconds.

"I don't suppose you want to go flying, do you?" It didn't quite come out as nonchalant as she'd hoped, but it wasn't execrable, either. Severus stilled; his eyes rose slowly to her face. "Technically," she said, shrugging, "Professor McGonagall hasn't given me the go ahead to transition by myself, but as long as you feel equipped to turn me back if it were to prove necessary, there shouldn't be any real problems."

She bit her tongue, then, recognising that she was perilously close to babbling. No need to mention that they'd be sneaking out together, after curfew, into the Forbidden Forest.

_It's fine with a teacher_, she told herself. _Harry went in there with Hagrid for detention as a first year!_

Severus still hadn't said anything.

"I could do with the practice," she added diffidently.

"Very well," he said. He got up from his chair, and led her through his rooms. As they walked through his sitting room, Fawkes lifted his head from under his wing and chirruped inquisitively. Snape held out his near hand and clicked his fingers. The phoenix spread his wings and took flight, swooping though the exterior door and soaring out before them into the night.

The night air had the brisk snap of the Scottish spring. Hermione felt liberated: the dome of the sky above her, the Milky Way so bright she could almost touch it. Fawkes shot ahead, arcing through the night, stretching his wings.

"What do you think Jocelyn needs to do about her singing?" she asked once they were far enough away from the castle that their words would not be heard.

Severus sighed. "I wish I knew." He looked up at the sky as they skirted the greenhouses. "She's more than capable, she just seems to be stuck."

"It reminds me of when she was blocking." Hermione thought about that for a moment; she hadn't put it that way to herself before, but now she had said it aloud, it seemed true. "Do you think we need to share a memory with her?"

"A memory of what? That helped last time because she realised she could trust me."

"Is that it?" asked Hermione, stopping abruptly on the path.

Severus turned back towards her. "You think she doesn't trust us?"

In the soft light of the stars, the pale skin of his face stood out like a white smudge. He looked stricken.

Hermione's mind churned over the new idea. She thought about sympathetic magic, about wanting the same thing, about Jocelyn. "We're going about this wrong," she whispered. "It's not about what she needs to do, it's about what we need to do." She ran her hands into her hair, clutching it and lifting it away from her scalp. "We should have brought her with us tonight," she said. "She should be here right now."

Severus stared at her, his face impassive. "You think she feels excluded," he said eventually.

"And why wouldn't she? We already know how to do this. We've been working together for nearly three years. She needs to know that we need her."

"Let's get her," said Severus. He stepped past her, walking back towards the school. He walked so quickly she had to jog to catch up.

"Wait," she whispered as he unlocked the door. "Where's Fawkes?"

"He'll take care of himself," murmured Severus. "Keep quiet."

Severus led her back through his living room, the lab, his office, and down the dungeon corridor away from the stairs that led to the Great Hall. He stopped beside an otherwise undifferentiated piece of wall.

"Quidditch champions," he muttered.

As the wall melted away, Hermione managed to catch his eye. _Quidditch champions?_ she mouthed. He rolled eyes.

He led her though the common room, which was lit by dim torches in sconces and the dying light of various fires. Hermione had never been there before, and she hungrily drunk in the sight of the huge leaded windows—nothing but dark water beyond them. Harry and Ron had described them as glowing green, which she supposed they might do during the day. The rest of the room was filled with leather couches—not so different from those in the Gryffindor common room, though these were black instead of brown and looked like they were in a considerably better condition. They took the third of several doors leading off the right hand side of the room. There were three or four steps up, and they turned several corners and passed another couple of doors. At the third door, Severus stopped. He raised a finger in warning, and opened it, slipping in on silent feet. Hermione followed.

The room was lit only by a glowing lava-lamp that cast an incongruous blue light. There were four standard-issue Hogwarts beds, decked in green curtains rather than the deep red to which Hermione was accustomed. Jocelyn was visible in the farthest bed, her curtain wide open.

Severus looked carefully around the room, observing each of the beds and their occupants before moving to Jocelyn's side. He leant over. He placed one hand on her shoulder, the other on his lips. Jocelyn stirred, and then started awake.

"What—" She covered her own mouth with her hand once her sleepy brain caught up. Her eyes skidded from Snape to Hermione, and her expression shifted from confused to concerned.

"Come," said Snape, speaking so softly that Hermione had to crane her ears to hear him. As Jocelyn pushed back her sheet and climbed out of bed, he waved her wand over her and transfigured her pyjamas into outside clothes.

Hermione turned and retraced her steps with the others following close behind.

"What—" said Jocelyn again as they crossed the common room.

"Outside," said Snape, and Jocelyn fell silent.

None of them said anything until they were back in Snape's quarters, and even then he just said, "Keep going."

Jocelyn looked worried, and Hermione threaded her arm through the other girl's, and squeezed comfortingly. "Everything's okay," she whispered, not entirely sure why she was whispering. Snape held a warning finger to his lips, and she fell silent once again. They snuck out the door, and crept along the side of the castle, then out past the flower beds and along behind the greenhouses. Only once they were under the cover of the forest did Snape break his silence.

"I think it is now safe for us to speak."

"Can I ask what we're doing?" asked Jocelyn.

"We're sneaking into the Forbidden Forest to go flying," said Hermione.

"You're joking." Jocelyn pulled her arm away from Hermione and stared at them both.

Severus gave one of his rare laughs. "No, actually: she is completely serious. We wanted you to come with us."

Jocelyn looked from one of them to the other as if they were both insane. "I don't have my broom," she said flatly.

"You won't need it," said Hermione. "I can carry you."

"Of course you can."

"No need to be sarcastic, young lady."

Hermione looked around. The trees came quite close to the edge of the path. There was probably room to change, but not necessarily to take off. "You don't know of a nearby clearing, do you?" she asked addressing the question to Severus.

"There's one not far from here," he said. "Come, Jocelyn," he added, holding out a hand. Jocelyn gave him a combative look, but she took it, and followed him off the path.

As promised, the clearing was close at hand. Hermione looked around and took a few deep breaths.

"What is about to happen must stay a secret between us," said Severus. He took Jocelyn by the shoulders and turned her so that her back was to him, her face towards Hermione. "When you're ready," he said, and nodded.

Hermione took a deep breath and gave Jocelyn the most reassuring smile she could manage. Then she transformed.

The world around her blurred as her body expanded. Her mind seemed to click into a new, different place. All of a sudden she could see the colours of the night: she could distinguish between the different greens of the leaves, and the differences between the trees. She could see the insects that hovered in the clearing, and the bats that flittered overhead. Her thoughts slipped seamlessly into Arithmancy and back.

"Fucking hell," swore Jocelyn. "How the hell?"

"She's an Animagus," explained Severus. "Surely you've seen Minerva McGonagall transform?"

"Yeah, but McGonagall's a cat—not a fucking enormous mythical beast!"

"Hermione is not a mythical beast, Jocelyn, she's a magical beast. It's an important distinction."

Jocelyn was calming down; she was looking at Hermione, her eyes ranging from claws to beak, from tail to chest. "Hermione?" she asked, as if unsure Hermione could actually hear her.

Hermione nodded her head.

"You're a gryphon?"—Hermione nodded again—"I thought that was just a story about the founders; I didn't realise it was actually possible."

"And here I was," commented Severus dryly, "thinking that Hermione the only student ever to have read _Hogwarts: A History_."

Hermione flicked her tail at him, which made him laugh again. _Twice in one night_, she thought rather foolishly. She wondered if he might not eventually become the kind of person who laughed quite regularly.

"McGonagall gave me a copy when she visited me on my birthday. My mum's boyfriend threw it away, so when I got to Hogwarts, I looked it up in the library." Jocelyn walked round to the left to get a better view of Hermione's wings. "How long have you been able to do this?" she asked.

"About ten days," said Severus, answering for her. "Right now, you are one of a very select number who know what Hermione is capable of." He walked past Jocelyn and stepped up close to Hermione. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest and tilted his head back to look up into her eye. "In a few minutes, Jocelyn," he said, though his eyes were on Hermione, "you might well be the only human in living memory to have ridden on a gryphon."

Hermione cocked her head, and lowered it closer to Jocelyn's level. Jocelyn regarded her for a long moment, casting the occasional glance at Severus. Then she walked over to where he stood and reached out a hand to touch Hermione's shoulder. She stroked one hand over the edge where feathers changed to fur.

"You're fucking beautiful, you know that?" she asked.

Hermione made the gentlest noise she knew how: a soft click of tongue against beak.

"You should get up behind the wing joint," said Severus.

Jocelyn didn't move straight away. Instead, she leant a little closer. "Hermione," she whispered, "why me?"

"Because she loves you," said Severus. "Now climb up, and let's fly."

Hermione could see well enough to see the tears glinting on Jocelyn's pale lashes; she could calculate the probability that one might break rank and roll down her face. She made the clicking noise again. Jocelyn sighed and ducked around Hermione's wing.

"Hope this doesn't hurt," she muttered, and climbed up onto Hermione's back, using the wing itself as a hand hold and stepping from back claw, to the back of Hermione's front knee, and then up near the shoulder joint.

Hermione felt Jocelyn settle between her shoulder blades. She spread her wings and moved them experimentally.

"Am I okay here?" asked Jocelyn, audibly concerned.

Hermione cawed twice, as softly as she could.

"It's two sounds for yes, one for no," said Severus to Jocelyn. "Can you fly with her there?" he asked, his attention focused on Hermione once again.

She cawed twice. With Jocelyn on her back a new set of equations had unfurled across Hermione's mind—charting the limits within which her burden would stay in place. She gestured at Severus with her beak, encouraging him to move out of her way. Then she spread her wings and took off.

"Holy crap!" shouted Jocelyn. "This is fucking amazing!"

Severus flew up to join them, and they soared off, over the forest. Within moments, Fawkes turned up, dipping and weaving as he flew. All in all they spent about an hour in the air: skimming the trees, diving and swooping, and at one point, dancing with a flock of Thestrals who rose up out of the forest—hooting mournfully.

Once they came back down to earth, Jocelyn slid down from Hermione's back, and Hermione changed back into her human form.

"Thank you," whispered Jocelyn, searching out Hermione's hand in the dark.

As they walked back to the castle, Jocelyn held hands with them both, linking them together under the light of the stars.

* * *

><p>Hermione sat at breakfast with the usual crowd. When the mail arrived, the regular parliament of owls was swelled by several score of Ministry birds, each of whom delivered imposing cream scrolls sealed with a large piece of red wax.<p>

"A commemoration ball?" asked Ron. All around them, the hum of chatter had increased in pitch and volume.

"At least they're not holding it here," said Hermione in a resigned voice, having read to the end of her invitation far faster than those around her.

"Gods, yes, that would be tasteless," agreed Neville.

Ron's head lifted slowly to stare at his friend.

"Neville," he said. "Who are you going to take to the ball?"

"Not this again," Neville replied, looking uncomfortable. "You know full well I'm not going to answer any of your questions."

"Yeah, leave off," said Dean peevishly. "It's alright for you blokes with girlfriends. You could have a little mercy on those of us who have to face the horror of actually asking someone."

"Who would you take if I were out of the picture, Ron?" asked Hermione, lowering her invitation and staring rather pointedly at her best friend.

"Woah! Don't answer that one, mate," advised Seamus. "Can. Of. Worms."

Harry laughed. "You've got to admit," he said, turning to Hermione, "that's an unfair question."

"Why?" asked Hermione. Without waiting for an answer, she asked Harry another question: "Who are you hoping to take?"

"Ginny, of course!"

"Have you asked her?"

Harry was flustered. "Of course not! I only just got the invitation—but she's my girlfriend, who else is she going to go with?"

Hermione shrugged, and then looked across the table and met Ginny's eye. "Who are you going to go to the ball with, Ginny?"

Ginny gave her a conspiratorial smile. "That's a good question. I might go with Harry—if he were to ask, that is."

"So I was wrong," said Dean, throwing up his hands. "Looks like you all have to go through the horror of asking."

"Guess no-one likes being taken for granted," said Neville.

Harry and Ron both looked a little panicked. "Ginny," said Harry, "will you go to the ball with me?"

Ginny gave him a blinding smile. "Yes, Harry," she said. "Thank you for asking."

Dean clapped a very relieved looking Harry on the back.

"Your turn, Weasley," said Seamus, a huge grin on his face. He was clearly enjoying the show.

Ron gave Hermione a long look. She could see the muscles bunched together along his jaw. "Hermione," he said finally, "will you go to the ball with me?"

Hermione picked up her invitation and folded it exactly in half. She scored the fold with her pinched fingers. "No, Ron," she said, and tucked the invitation into her satchel, "I won't."

She got up from the table and left, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.

* * *

><p>AN: If you've read this for the second time, you might have noticed that I cut the final scene. Don't worry-what was there will happen, you'll just find out about it later.

This is, as many of you have started to guess, the beginning of the end, though the ending itself is still a longish way away (think another nine chapters or so). What will happen next? And more importantly, what will Snape do about it?


	31. Chapter 30: One Step Back

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 30: One Step Back

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Okay, so if you read the last chapter within about 10 hours of it going up (which was, er, about 758 of you), you would have experienced a rather abrupt turn at the end of the chapter (the chapter was called "Ambush"); if you read it after that point, then the very last scene was cut (and the chapter was called "Two Steps Forwards"). Either way: DON'T WORRY! The story line is the same as ever, just the timing of when you discover that last piece of information has changed (not the timing of when it actually happened). As you were.

Anyway, this chapter YES ANOTHER SUPER FAST UPDATE, I THINK I DESERVE A NICE GLASS OF FIREWHISKEY, is dedicated to JeniDRalph, but also to all of you, because as I've said one million times before, it's those reviews of yours that keep me clacking away at my keyboard when I should be sleeping. Or working. Or, you know, doing the laundry.

* * *

><p>Severus spent lunchtime at his desk, grading papers. With so many of his evenings devoted to Hermione he had fallen behind. While it was simple enough to score the many quizzes of the late semester using magic, and not too difficult to review the answers in order to focus his lectures on what the students had as yet failed to learn, it was impossible to grade papers without plenty of time. And with only a week until exams, his poor neglected students needed his comments as soon as possible—otherwise, they wouldn't have a hope of following his suggestions.<p>

By the time he blew into the Potions classroom, slamming the doors theatrically, his N.E.W.T.s class was already assembled. He pointed his wand at a pile of practice exams stacked on his desk, sending them skimming out over the room to land before each student.

"You have fifty-five minutes," he snarled. "Your time starts now." He felt irritated with them already, and no-one had even spoken yet.

Only as he dumped the grading he'd brought with him onto his desk and pulled out his chair, did he notice Potter's hand. And the empty seat beside him. Severus paused in the act of sitting, his hands full of robes where he'd gathered them up.

"What do you want, Potter?"

"Hermione's not here, sir."

"Very observant," retorted Severus, retracing his steps around his desk and stalking towards the back of the class.

"She wasn't at lunch, either," the boy went on, "but we just assumed that she'd gone to the library. It's not like her to miss class, sir."

"Should I stop the class, Potter? Because a student is missing?" Severus let his mouth run on autopilot; he was generating a mental list of perfectly banal reasons for her absence—desperately trying to outbalance the horrific possibilities that had occurred to him first.

"No, sir," ground out Potter. He looked mutinous, and also slightly betrayed. He bugged his eyes at Severus as if he'd expected better.

"Harry Potter," said Severus—quietly enough to sound menacing, but loud enough that he could be heard at the nearby tables—"if you find yourself unable to complete even a practice exam without Miss Granger's assistance, then I can only suggest you go and find her." He watched Potter blink repeatedly as he managed to process the actual content of his words and not just his tone. "And make it quick."

"Yes, sir." Potter stepped back from his table and cast a glance at his Potions equipment. Then he turned, empty-handed, and ran towards the door.

Severus turned back towards his desk and caught sight of the rest of the class—most of whom were unabashedly watching his interaction with Potter. "You have fifty-one minutes left," he snapped. All around him, heads dropped towards their papers and quills leapt upright.

Severus sat himself at his desk. He pulled the nearest paper towards him, and then stared at it, unseeing.

It wasn't like Hermione to miss class.

Perhaps she was so tired from their late night flying escapades, that she had fallen asleep somewhere—quite possibly in the library, her head pillowed on a book.

Perhaps she was up in Vector's office, so intent on a calculation that she'd lost track of time.

Perhaps she'd realised the extent of his foolish, crazy, aching, ridiculous, totally inappropriate feelings for her, and decided that she didn't want to see him, ever again.

Perhaps she was injured, attacked, hurt, needing help.

This last seemed unlikely—she was, after all, the _gryphon d'or_, fully capable of crushing an attacker with a single claw. Still, it was very unlike Hermione to miss class, and her unexpected absence sat uncomfortably in Severus' gut.

Though he graded a few papers, his concentration was shot; he kept losing track of where he was, having to start each paragraph over several times. He glanced repeatedly at the door. He cursed Potter for his idiocy, his ineptitude, his slovenly dress sense, and the unacceptable, unconscionable, completely and utterly ridiculous amount of time it was taking him to find Hermione. Forty-six minutes after Potter left, he reappeared in the doorway—accompanied by Weasley; no Hermione in sight.

"Pens down," barked Severus, rising to his feet and waving his wand in order to collect the exams. They flew from the grasping fingers of startled students.

"But, sir," protested Blaine, "there are still five min . . ." He trailed off at the look on Severus' face. "Very good, sir," he said brightly, and stuffed his quill into his pocket. Blaine took his bag and left.

The room emptied out quickly; Potter and Weasley entered against the tide.

"Well?" He looked from one to the other.

"She's gone."

"Gone where, Potter?"

"Gone!" Potter repeated, waving the parchment in his hands for emphasis. "She's not in the castle, and no-one has seen her since breakfast! We have no idea where she is."

He never should have entrusted this task to Potter. "Where have you looked?"

"Everywhere!' Potter waved his parchment again.

"In this situation, Potter," he ground out, looming over his desk, "a linear narrative would be greatly preferable." He considered throttling the boy. He wondered whether Hermione might be out flying somewhere, perhaps trapped in her Animagus form.

Weasley put a restraining hand on Potter's arm. "He looked in the library first, then in Vector's office, right?" He looked at Potter for confirmation; Potter nodded. "Then he went to our dormitory for the map—that's where he found me, since I had a free period. We checked the map, and couldn't find her anywhere. We tried the Room of Requirement, just in case, but it opened immediately and she wasn't there. Just to be certain we passed by Hagrid's cottage: Hermione has Care of Magical Creatures first thing on Tuesdays. This morning she didn't show."

"This is the map?" Severus held out his hand.

Potter looked at the parchment in his hand and grimaced. "Yeah," he said with a sigh, handing it over with evident reluctance.

"I've seen this before," said Severus, frowning down at the crest that decorated one corner. In the centre of the parchment was a map of the castle, however, that he had certainly never seen. Incredibly, it showed not just the building, the corridors and rooms, but also the inhabitants: little dots, each with a label, moved around and across the page. Since class had just ended, the corridors were flooded with students; professors were mostly at their desks, some talking to individual students. "I didn't realise it was a map."

"No," said Potter, drawing the syllable out reluctantly. "The Marauders made it."

Severus was too busy figuring out how the map worked to pay much attention to Potter's confession. The construction was ingenious: somehow, it linked into the castle's magic. If he'd only thought to do something like this during his horrendous year as Headmaster, his life would have been much easier. He pressed his wand to the corner of the page and tried to access the magic that made it work.

"You can change the location within the castle," said Potter, demonstrating.

Severus grunted. He couldn't get past the first layer of spells—at least, not without a lot more time—but he did figure out how to make it search for a specific person rather than a specific place. The map began to cycle through locations of its own accord, searching for Hermione. Moments later the shifting images were replaced by an inky black message: _Person not found._

"We need to get to the Headmistresses' office," he said. His whole body was jittery with nervous energy. Heedless of his scheduled classes, he was intent on the question of Hermione's whereabouts. She needed to be found—immediately—and he had no intention of entrusting the task to anyone else.

"Come," he ordered, calling back Potter and Weasley who had turned for the door. He gestured them into his office, where he activated the Floo. He threw in a handful of powder and then propelled Potter by the shoulder, down into the grate.

_If something has happened to Hermione—_he cut the thought short. He would find her, and that would be the end of it.

"McGonagall's office," he said, then repeated the process for Weasley before stepping through himself.

As he'd known from the map, Minerva was seated at her desk.

"Severus?" she asked.

"Hermione Granger is missing," Severus replied. He marvelled at how calm his voice sounded when he felt like screaming at the top of his lungs and shaking people, primarily Potter.

"Missing?" Minerva was startled. She pressed a hand against her chest.

"No-one has seen her since breakfast," said Weasley.

When Minerva looked to Potter for confirmation of this statement, he nodded, rubbing at his hair. "She and Ron had a, a kind of fight—"

"It wasn't a fight," interrupted Weasley. "I told you, Harry, when I asked her that question, I knew what she was going to say."

"Whatever," said Potter, "it doesn't make a difference whether we call it a fight or not. Point is that she walked out of the Great Hall by herself. And now she's gone."

That was new information. If she'd fought with Weasley it became more probable that she'd gone off somewhere by herself—flying, even, out over the forest. Worse: crying somewhere. While he could strangle the ginger idiot, it was a far preferable scenario to some of the others that were running through his mind.

"Perhaps one of the portraits saw something?" Severus spoke with the intent of spurring Minerva into action, but he glared at Weasley. If that moron had upset her, inadvertently placing her in danger, then he deserved a smack. Or detention. Perhaps Filch could hang him upside down in by his ankles while he pondered the errors of his ways.

"Yes," said Minerva. She still looked shaken. She looked up at the paintings arrayed around her desk. "If you wouldn't mind spreading the word?" she asked, her voice clipped with anxiety.

There was a chorus of agreement from various frames, and a good portion of the previous Headmasters and Headmistress slipped out of view.

"We need to find her," said Potter. "As quickly as possible."

As a sentiment, it was so obvious as to be barely worth having said aloud. Action was what they needed, not noble declarations.

"If she is out somewhere in the forest, transformed," Severus asked Minerva, "is there an easy way to find her?" The answer came to him as soon as he'd asked the question. "Fawkes!" he called, stunned that it had taken him so long to think of his familiar.

There was a bang, and Fawkes appeared in midair. The bird landed on the desk and proceeded to dance a chirruping hello to Albus' portrait.

"Fawkes," said Severus, lowering himself on his heels beside him. "Hermione Granger is missing."—the words felt like a mouthful of flour, choking him, smothering him—"Can you find her? Can you bring her back?"

Fawkes looked up at him, his head cocked to one side. Everyone in the room had fallen silent, their eyes on the bird. Fawkes tilted his head back and forth a few times. He let out a few questioning chirps. He didn't move.

"What is it?" asked Severus. He leant his face in closer. "Can you sense where she is?"

Fawkes hesitated for a second, then shook his head. Severus felt dizzy; he couldn't feel his fingers. "What does that mean?" he asked. He looked up and caught Albus' eye. "What does that mean?" he asked again, leaping to his feet and almost running over towards the painting.

Albus held up his hands in a placating gesture. "It probably means that her location is Unplottable." He looked over Severus' shoulder at Minerva. "Under the circumstances," Albus added, "we need to treat Miss Granger's disappearance as sinister. Without Miss Granger, we cannot destroy the wand."

"What if she were dead," asked Weasley, putting into words the question that Severus himself couldn't bear to voice, "would Fawkes be able to find her then?"

Albus adjusted his glasses before he spoke. "No," he said softly. "But you shouldn't give up hope. Miss Granger is a formidable and intelligent witch in her own right. And while she remains alive she is far more valuable to anyone who hopes to lure or influence Harry."

_She can't be dead. _He couldn't even face the possibility. _Surely,_ his illogical heart insisted, _surely I would know if she were dead. I would feel it._

"Right," said Weasley. His face was determined. "I'm going after her. You coming?"

Severus realised, with some surprise, that Weasley was talking to him. "Yes," he said.

"Me, too," said Potter.

"I'm not sure—" began Albus.

"Quite frankly, Professor," interrupted Potter, "I don't care if this is a trap. It's _Hermione_. I'm going, and there's nothing anyone can say to convince me otherwise."

"She could be anywhere!" protested Minerva. "You can't just head off into the blithe unknown expecting to find her!"

"Right, but I've got this," said Weasley, opening his fist. In it lay a silver cigarette lighter that Severus recognised as Albus' Deluminator. "We just have to get beyond the Anti-Disapparation boundaries and it should take us straight to her."

"I'm fully capable of dropping the wards in my office," noted Minerva. She sounded peevish. "You still need a plan: how are you going to get a message back to us? What if you need reinforcements? What if it is a trap?"

Severus read his own recalcitrance towards delay on the faces of the two boys. But Minerva was right.

"Fifteen minutes," he said, pointing his wand at three of the room's many chairs and drawing them close to Minerva's desk. They all sat, perched on the edges of their chairs, ready to be gone, and hashed out the rudiments of a plan.

Minerva, for her part, agreed to assemble as many Order members as possible; she would also contact the Aurors. In addition, she would make sure that her office was guarded at all times: were Hermione to activate her Order Portkey, she would arrive unexpectedly.

Severus, Weasley and Potter were going in search of Hermione. As soon as they found her they would derive the co-ordinates of the location and send them to Minerva.

"A Patronus is loud," said Weasley, "particularly if you want to send a message."

"Yeah," agreed Potter. "We'll use the contact Galleons, instead."

Both boys produced a gold coin. "Hermione made them," said Weasley, his voice choking a little on her name, "with a Protean charm. If we change the numbers at our end, then your one will heat up and glow to tell you that there's a new message."

Potter put his Galleon on Minerva's desk, Weasley returned his to his pocket.

"It's possible that we'll find her, but that the location will be Secret Kept." That had happened when Severus followed Weasley to Shell Cottage. "An Unplottable location is likely to have other protections in place, too."

"What do we do, then?" asked Weasley.

"Need I remind you," put in Albus, "that if the point of this exercise is to lure Harry, there would be no benefit in hiding Miss Granger too well."

"And if it's not?" queried Minerva. She shot Severus an urgent glance. "We've kept the knowledge of her transformation very close, but if someone were to find out—"

"Why?" asked Weasley, his eyes shifting from Minerva to Severus. "What does her Animagus form have to do with her disappearance?"

"Maybe nothing," said Minerva. "I'm just saying that this may not be about Harry or the Wand—it might just be about Hermione."

"There's something you aren't telling us."

"This isn't the moment for a history lesson," replied Minerva. Her tone brooked no argument. "Just be careful—and bring her back safely."

"Let's get moving," said Potter, rising abruptly from his seat. "Every moment we waste is another moment she's in danger."

"Just a moment—" Phineas held up a finger. "Incoming."

Amrose Swott shuffled into his frame, panting heavily. "Milady Headmistress," he said gallantly, "word comes from the third floor: Mistress Granger was there this morning shortly after breakfast, only to Portkey away with the sneaky girl."

"The _sneaky_ girl?" asked Weasley.

"Yes," confirmed Swott, "the young lady with the unfortunate skin malady." He indicated his cheeks with his hand.

"Marietta Edgecombe?" exclaimed Minerva. "But Miss Edgecombe graduated nearly two years ago! What on earth was she doing at Hogwarts?"

"There's no way that Hermione would Portkey anywhere with Marietta," said Potter, his voice flatly disbelieving.

"Swott!" demanded Severus. "Who witnessed the event?"

"Mistress Muffet saw it happen." Swatt mopped his forehead with a large kerchief. "She's downstairs, if you would like to question her directly."

"Send her up," commanded Minerva, throwing up both hands, "at once!"

Swott levered himself to his feet with some difficulty, and then sank back gratefully as Phineas waved him back. Phineas slid out the side of his frame, returning moments later with Miss Muffet herself. She wore an enormous floral cap with a matching apron, and had brought along a bowl with a large spoon. She bobbed a curtsey at the sight of the Headmistress, and stared around her with frank curiosity.

"Miss Muffet," said Minerva—the painting bobbed another curtsey—"thank you for your time. Could you please tell us exactly what happened this morning?"

"Yes, ma'am, certainly, ma'am," she said, bobbing up and down with exaggerated politeness. "I was sitting on my tuffet, like I normally do, ma'am, eating my curds and whey, when along came the Granger girl—I recognise her because she often comes to the library. Always has a lot of books."

Severus opened his mouth to hurry the account along, but Weasley beat him to it: "Then what?"

"Then, young master, another girl came running after her, calling her name. Mistress Granger stopped and talked to her: the other girl wanted to her to go with her to Ravenclaw Tower. She said that someone called Luna needed her. Then the two girls held hands, and disappeared in a flash of blue light."

"And you recognised the other girl?" prompted Severus.

"Yes," she bobbed her head. "It was the Ravenclaw girl with the bad skin, the one who betrayed Headmaster Dumbledore's Army."

"Was she wearing the school uniform?"

"Yes, master."

Potter sat with one hand on his forehead. "Edgecombe," he muttered, "Edgecombe." He sat up straight, glancing at the clock. "We've got to go," he said. "Hermione's been gone for nearly six hours already."

"Right," said Weasley. He stood up. "Can you lower the wards?" he said, his eyes on Minerva.

Minerva pinched the bridge of her nose between two fingers. She took and released a breath. "Yes," she said, and waved her wand. "Just be careful, and send word as soon as you can."

"Minerva," said Severus, rising to his own feet, and struck by a sudden new fear. "Find Jocelyn. If this is about the Wand, then she's in danger, too."

She nodded. "I will," she promised.

"Fawkes," he said, turning to the bird. "Stick with Jocelyn, and don't let her out of your sight."

"Let's go," said Weasley. He clicked the Deluminator and the few lights that Minerva had lit in spite of the sunlight separated from their wicks and flew into the little machine. He clicked it again, and they flew back. He frowned. Weasley clicked twice more and the situation repeated. "What's going on?" he said, concerned, addressing the question to Albus' portrait.

Albus grimaced. "Anti-Disapparation wards?" he offered.

"But they're down!" exclaimed Potter, turning towards Minerva.

"At the other end," said Severus. Albus nodded.

"Or she's dead? Right?" Weasley looked about to lose it.

She couldn't be dead. She wasn't. Goddamnit but if she were, he would travel—like Orpheus—down to the underworld and sing her back to life.

"Get your brooms," he said, cutting across whatever else Potter and Weasley might have had to add to the conversation. "We're going to have to use a tracking charm. Let's just hope she isn't too far away."

He would find her. There was no other option.

"Okay," said Weasley, nodding as if he were grasping at straws. "Brooms."

"Leave the map for Minerva," he added, "that way she can keep an eye out for other intruders."

"But for a tracking charm," said Potter, handing over the map without even blinking (Minerva stared at it with frank astonishment), "we need Hermione's blood, and a picture, and something written in her hand—" At the very least he seemed to know the basics of how such charms worked.

"Her hair will suffice. Get your brooms."

"Accio will be fastest, we can get them as soon as we're outside," said Weasley. "Let's go."

They were all fuelled by urgency, and as Severus hurried out of the room, he heard their clattering steps behind him. They jogged down the moving staircase and out into the hall. They took the Great Staircase at a run. They hurried across the foyer. Once they were out the Great Door, Weasley and Potter summoned their brooms.

Severus considered them both, even as they leapt astride and flew for the gate: Potter's broom was fast, but Weasley's was only a Cleansweep. Severus summoned his own broom midair and he thrust it at Weasley as they came into land.

"Use this," he said. "I don't intend to be held up by anyone."

Weasley blinked at him, but unexpectedly he sent his own broom winging back to his dorm without a word of complaint.

"What now?" asked Potter.

"Clear a space in the dirt," said Severus. He was deactivating the spell that concealed a particularly secret pocket in his robes. In it were three things: a photograph, a short letter, and a phial containing a long, curly lock of Hermione's hair. Severus took out the picture and the letter, and extracted a single strand of hair, replacing the bottle in his pocket.

"Brilliant," said Weasley. "Do you have all this stuff for everyone in the Order?"

"No," said Severus, without bothering to look at the boy. "Not for everyone." No need to say that Hermione was the _only_ person for whom he had them. He had a sudden memory of her: sleeping in the tent. Of how much he'd wanted to kiss her when he stole the lock of her hair.

Severus knelt by the patch of ground Potter had cleared. He looked at the ridiculously young picture of Hermione in the photo. She waved back. _I will find you_, he promised. _We're coming as fast as we can._ Scraping up a small handful of dirt, he piled it in the middle of the clearing. Then he placed the photograph on one side, the letter on the other.

"Hey," said Weasley, "Hermione has the other half of that photo! The bit with us in it."

Severus ignored him. He took her hair, and picking up the loose dirt, pulled the hair through the palm of his hand, coating it in soil. Then he laid the hair carefully on the ground, forming it into the runes for protection, questing, and answer. He pulled out his wand and touched the tip of it gently to the hair. "_Ostendo mihi via."_

He felt the tug on his wand immediately. Reclaiming the photo, letter and hair, he tucked all three back in his pocket and sealed it up. "Let's go," he said, rising to his feet.

"The tracking spell," shouted Weasley over the wind as they took off, "does it work for dead people?"

They rose up over the forest into a perfect spring day.

"I don't know," replied Severus. The wind whipped at his hair and pulled at his robes. "Let's just be content that it is working, and worry about the rest later."

They flew quickly, guided by the insistent pull on Severus' wand. The landscape below them was breathtaking and it cut him to the quick. How could the world look so peaceful, so beautiful, when Hermione was in danger? Held somewhere against her will? Hurting? In pain? His fertile imagination conjured up scenario after scenario—each more horrific than the last.

It was Weasley who broke the silence: "Snape," he shouted from his broom, "what's the deal with Hermione's Animagus form?"

Severus shot a glance at the boy. His jaw was set and his eyes flickered continually back and forth from the direction indicated by Severus' wand and the landscape around them.

"Have you ever wondered why your house is called 'Gryffindor', Weasley?"

"Because of Godric Gryffindor, right?"

Severus grunted. "And why was Godric Gryffindor called the 'Gryffindor'?"

"I have no idea, Snape," said Weasley, enunciating each word. "That's why I'm asking for an explanation."

"Why was Salazar Slytherin called 'Slytherin'?" retorted Potter, from his other side.

"Slytherin was given his name because he could speak Parseltongue; that's what the name means." Severus sighed at their ignorance. "There was logic behind the rumours that you were the Heir of Slytherin, Potter."

"So Gryffindor isn't a family name? It means something?" asked Weasley.

"In the Middle Ages, few people used family names the way we do now. Children were given names, but they also picked up other names as they grew—these nicknames referred to their personalities, their origins, or events in their lives. They served to differentiate one Godric from the next."

"So you're saying," said Potter, "that Gryffindor means . . . golden gryphon?"

"Correct."

"You're saying," clarified Weasley, "that Godric Gryffindor was an Animagus gryphon, just like Hermione."

"Correct again." The pull on Severus' wand was a strong as ever. They were being led further and further north, out over the forest. "In the early school records, the insignia for Gryffindor house was a male gryphon, not a lion. It wasn't until much later—when Ravenclaw house became more jealous of the eagle's attributes—that the eagle's head and the spikes were removed."

"Wait," said Potter, "what about the wings?"

"Male gryphons don't have wings." Severus paused. "Hermione," he added, "is the first gryphon Animagus since Godric himself."

For about thirty seconds, neither boy spoke.

Weasley cleared his throat. "I understand that makes Hermione brilliant—but we all knew that. I don't understand why it makes her a target."

"There is an old, old story," said Severus, "that the Wizarding World will manage to overcome blood prejudice and found a new, more equal society only when the Golden Gryphon and the Heir of Slytherin work together."

"But Voldemort was the Heir of Slytherin! He's dead!"

"Potter, it's a story."

"Maybe you're supposed to be the Heir of Slytherin, Snape," suggested Weasley. "You've been working very closely with Hermione."

"Unlikely. I—for one—do not speak Parseltongue."

"I'm not the Heir of Slytherin," said Potter mulishly.

"If you imagine—for one second—that Slytherin is keen to adopt you, Potter, then you haven't been paying attention."

Potter then had the temerity to look hurt and to mutter at an audible volume: "I was almost sorted into Slytherin, you know."

What Snape didn't know was how Hermione managed to put up with these two idiots on a daily basis.

"Her being the Golden Gryphon, though, means she can defend herself, right?"

"Yes!" exclaimed Potter, as if the idea had honestly never occurred to him before. "Sirius could transform even without his wand! And Hermione is bigger even than Buckbeak!"

Severus realised that neither of them had actually seen her transform. Comparing her to Buckbeak was laughable.

"If Hermione was kidnapped in order to get to you, Potter, then yes, her Animagus form should prove a significant advantage." He heard Minerva's words in his mind: _Kill a man as soon as look at him_. "But if her status as an Animagus is already known, her kidnappers will have taken care to prevent a transformation."

"You can do that?"

"Ropes or chains can be imbued with the Homorphus Charm; she might also be injured, or knocked unconscious."

There was a long silence. Severus' mind was filling with unpleasant images—many were memories dredged up from his past, with Hermione's face plastered onto the victims.

"Edgecombe wouldn't kill her, would she?" asked Potter. Clearly he, too, had been considering rather horrific possibilities.

"It's not just Edgecombe we have to worry about, is it?" asked Weasley.

Severus turned his head and examined the face of the red-headed boy on his broom.

"Edgecombe never struck me as particularly smart," Weasley went on, "but she is in Ravenclaw. She could probably pull off a Portkey by herself, even a voice-activated one. But Dis-Apparation wards? An Unplottable residence? That's serious magic."

"It might be an old family home," remarked Severus. "She didn't necessarily cast that magic herself."

"True," acknowledge Weasley, "but what reason would she have to take her so far away? By the time they arrived wherever they Portkeyed to, Hermione would have been ready to fight. And she could take Edgecombe for sure—as a gryphon or a girl. The simple fact that Hermione's not back yet makes me sure that there are others involved."

"Edgecombe betrayed us once already," said Potter.

"Well, she should have learned from her mistake," said Weasley. "This time she's going to _wish_ that she had the word SNEAK tattooed across her face."

"We're getting close," said Severus, noting the moment that the tension on his wand shifted slightly.

They'd been flying over forest their entire flight, but now the landscape was changing: rocky outcrops broke up the tree cover, and several grassy hilltops stood entirely clear of the foliage. The pull on his wand was directed to one hill in particular, and they circled round it at some distance, ducking in and out of clouds before coming to land behind the nearest stand of trees.

"Is it secret kept, or under the ground?" asked Weasley in a whisper.

"Secret kept, I think," replied Severus. "There's a faint path that looked like it was once a road."

"What do we do now?" despaired Potter. "The Death Eaters sat in the square outside Grimmauld Place for ages, and until Yaxley hitched a ride on Hermione's shoulder, none of them had a clue about how to get in."

Severus closed his eyes and tried to think. He dredged up everything he knew about the Fidelius Charm: only a Secret Keeper could tell you the address, in person or in writing; to see the building, you had to re-iterate the Secret Keeper's words. The charm itself was impossible to break.

What had Potter just said? That Yaxley had made it into Grimmauld Place because Hermione had led him in, even though she didn't explicitly tell him where it was?

With his eyes closed, the pull against his wand seemed stronger than ever. He had to fight against it in order to hold his wand near his body and not stretched out, pointing towards the hill.

He had to think. He had to work out a way in. Hermione needed him.

His wand pulled inexorably against his hand.

Secret keeping didn't move the building, he rationalised, it just altered the viewer's perception. He opened his eyes. He looked at the hilltop, and his senses assured him that there was nothing there.

"I have," he said, "a crazy idea."

"We're all ears," said Weasley.

Severus looked at the two boys. They wouldn't have been his first choice of fighting companions, but at least they knew the right end of their wands, and he couldn't doubt their devotion to Hermione.

"The tracking spell knows she's in there, but the Fidelius Charm will ensure that we wander past without ever seeing the building." Severus took a deep breath. "I wonder whether, if I had my eyes closed, the tracking spell might not lead me in."

"Wait, you're suggesting that we walk in there with our _eyes closed_?!"

"No." Severus was infuriated that he was even bothering to explain himself. What a waste of time. "I'm suggesting that I walk in there with my eyes closed—based on a theoretical speculation that may well prove to be completely unfounded. But it might just work. Not even the Dark Lord knew how to break the Fidelius Charm, Potter. Given that we know Hermione to be in there, I'm prepared to take a risk ."

"I'll come with you," said Weasley.

"How exactly?" demanded Severus. He wanted, quite irrationally, to do this by himself. "We can't both hold onto my wand. I'm going to need full control of my magic—particularly if my eyes are closed."

"You have more of her hair," said Weasley. "I saw it. You have the picture and the letter, too. I'll cast the tracking spell, and we can go in together."

Severus glared at the boy, but he stared back calmly.

"It makes sense for Harry, though, to wait out here."

Potter looked around the forest, and peered through the trees at the eerily empty hill.

"No," he said resolutely. "We'll do it together."

Severus considered his options. He could run off now and go it alone, and risk that these two fools would bumble after him—at the very least they might alert Hermione's kidnappers to their presence. Or, he could try to dissuade them. Since they were both stupid and stubborn, it didn't seem very likely. He could, of course, just take them with him. He knew what Hermione would do.

"You do what I say," he said, "without question."

"Agreed." Both boys nodded.

"Whatever happens, you do not open your eyes until I give the signal."

They nodded again.

"We will need to be Disillusioned; we will also be effectively blind. We need to figure out a way that we can keep contact while we move forwards."

"You should stand in the centre, Snape, and I can be on this side"—Weasley stood to his left; he took hold of Snape's left hand and placed it on the wrist of his wand hand—"like this, and Harry, you can stand on the right." Potter stood on Severus' right and placed his left hand under Severus' elbow. By jerking his hand or his elbow, Severus could get the attention of them both.

"That works, right?"

"Yeah, nice work, Ron."

"Okay, now let's send the co-ordinates to McGonagall," said Weasley, pulling his contact Galleon out from his pocket.

Potter calculated their position, and Weasley transmitted the message. Severus prepared the ground for a second—and third—tracking spell.

The boys were solemn as they cast the spell, and when they stood up, ready to be Disillusioned, they wore identically stoic expressions.

"Wait—" said Weasley as Severus was about to Disillusion him. "I think you'd better blindfold me. I just don't trust myself not to open my eyes at precisely the wrong moment."

Severus tried to swallow away a funny lump in his throat. Somehow, somewhere along the way, this boy had began to trust him.

"God, you're right. Me, too, Snape. I think I need a blindfold, too."

Severus stared at Potter. _What on earth_, he wondered, _would Lily think now?_ The answer to that, was fairly obvious: _Be careful, Sev, you've kept him alive too long to fuck things up now._

Severus conjured two blindfolds, and tied them tightly in place. Then, having hooked their hands into place, he Disillusioned all three of them. He kept his own eyes open until they'd stepped beyond the edge of the trees. There, he took a deep breath, and placed his faith in his other senses. The pull of his wand led him forwards, towards Hermione.

Before they had covered ten feet, he was sweating with anxiety. They made a supremely vulnerable target: three blind men walking slowly over a rocky hill. The desire to open his eyes was overwhelming. His earlier quip about Orpheus came back to him: it wasn't the singing that Orpheus found difficult, he remembered, it was the challenge of trusting what he couldn't see. Orpheus turned back to look at Eurydice, and lost her forever. Well, Severus would not make the same mistake. He kept his eyes closed; he couldn't afford to lose Hermione. Not again.

Severus felt the wards before they walked into them. "Stop," he breathed. The others complied. They were complicated yet familiar: wards that Severus had cast before. "Death Eater wards," he muttered. "Hold still." With the sure touch of an adept, Severus threaded a hand through the layers of protective magic surrounding the house. Counting the variegated magical pulses, he chose his moment. "On my signal," he murmured, "take two large steps forwards: now."

They strode forwards on command, stumbling over the rough ground and colliding with each other.

"Oh, crap," said Weasley—quietly, but unnecessarily.

"Shh," hissed Potter.

They froze. Severus strained his senses for any indication that their intrusion had been noticed. After an interminable thirty seconds, he spoke in a savage whisper: "Move forwards again—as slowly _and quietly _as possible."

For more than ten minutes they crept forwards over the uneven ground, certain at every moment they were about to be picked off by a Death Eater or attacked by an unseen foe. Finally, Severus' foot hit upon a square, manmade edge: the riser of a stone staircase. A staircase that his eyes had not known were there.

It was working. Impossibly, it was working.

Severus took a deep breath and stepped onto the first step. The others, feeling him move, followed. They inched up seven low, flat steps until they reached the front door. Severus felt across the wooden, elaborately carved surface. He couldn't sense any further defensive spells—but then, what need did a heavily warded, Secret-Kept house have of elaborate locking magic? He cast a non-verbal Alohamora and heard a satisfying click. He scrabbled for the handle.

"I will open the door," he breathed. "Step inside immediately. Do not uncover your eyes until you're in."

"Got it," whispered one of his companions.

"Be ready to attack. On the count of three: one, two, three!" Severus threw open the door and flung himself inside. He opened his eyes.

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><p>AN: Oh, come on! You _knew_ I was going to do that! The alternating POV structure of my chapters pretty much ensured that was going to happen, so no need to complain! Instead, tell me how much you love me so that my muse is well lubricated . . . I'm working on the next chapter RIGHT NOW. I do have a rough draft already, so it shouldn't be too long at all. In fact, I think we should all acknowledge that I'm totally ON A ROLL with my chapters right now. Probably because there are too many things in my real life that I'm procrastinating about, but also because (A) I'm excited about the end of this story and I'm in a hurry to get there and (B) your fucking awesome reviews are the best encouragement an author could need.

Also, if you google "male griffin," you can find an extract from John Vinycomb's 1909 book, _Fictitious and Symbolic Creatures in Art_, that has a nice image of the male gryphon rampant, as well as a brief description of how the male differs from the female. I think you can see how easily, over several hundred years, the Gryffindor Gryffin became the Gryffindor Lion.

And also, also: Amarenima Redwood, did you see what I did there? I decided you were right. And biggerthanthis, I fretted about the descriptions of SS's emotions here, hope I did a better job.


	32. Chapter 31: Resistance

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 31: Resistance

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: This chapter is for everyone who leaves a review without giving a name. I'm not sure when a "Guest" is the same "Guest" as any other, but I wanted you to know that I love your reviews, even if I don't have a (fake) name to feel like I know who you are.

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><p>The first thing Hermione noticed was the pain: her head ached, her shoulders hurt, and her wrists and ankles were tied altogether too tightly to a hard wooden chair.<p>

"I think she's waking up."

Hermione froze, feigning oblivion. It didn't help.

"_Crucio!_"

Despite her best efforts, Hermione screamed until she was hoarse. She pulled in vain against the ropes that bound her. The pain colonised her brain, pushing out every thought except the need to endure and a sharp stone of hatred against whomever it was who was punishing her.

Finally, her attacker stopped, giggling rather hysterically to himself. Shaken and gasping, Hermione opened her eyes. She found herself in a rather well-appointed parlour. It was the kind of room that spoke of Purebloods and money; the kind of room that already appeared in the worst of her nightmares. She also found that she was naked, and with that knowledge, the bottom dropped out of her stomach. She felt exposed and vulnerable—and with good reason. There were two familiar faces looming over her: one was calm and composed, the other had the wide-eyed stare and deranged expression of a total madman.

"How wonderful to see you again, Miss Granger," said Yaxley, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Hello little Mudblood," said Rabastan Lestrange. His eyes were fixed directly on her chest.

Hermione had bitten her tongue during the Crucio episode and she took the opportunity to spit blood onto Rabastan's leering face. He retaliated with a slap across her cheek; Yaxley laughed. "Later, Rabastan," he said reprovingly. "She'll be yours to play with once we're finished, not before."

Hermione swallowed, grimacing at the pain. She felt around her teeth with her tongue. "Where's Marietta?" she asked.

In retrospect, she'd been foolish in the extreme. Taken by surprise, with Marietta dressed in the Hogwarts' uniform and Hermione hamstrung by the guilty feelings that the other girl always inspired, Hermione hadn't even considered the odd circumstance of Marietta's presence at the school. Well, she was paying for it now.

"No doubt she'll be along soon with the others. I understand she has a few questions for you." Yaxley let his eyes roam over Hermione's body, and smirked at her obvious discomfort.

Hermione was starting to gather her wits. She had to get out of here—that much was obvious—though the question remained as to how much information she could leech from her captors before she transformed into a gryphon and smashed her way though the plate glass windows that separated her from the open sky.

_Others?_ she wondered, as she assessed her possibilities. With two, she had a good chance at freedom; she could probably strike at them both before they managed to hit her with a Homorphus Charm. The more enemies in the room, however, the lower her chance of escape.

"Others?" she said aloud, playing for time and hoping that at least one of the two men might turn his back. "I thought that there were only three of you left after our little altercation in Hogsmeade."

"I like to keep some of my cards close to my chest." Yaxley smirked. "Though I am flattered that you recognised my handiwork."

Hermione was cataloguing the contents of the room. She wondered if her wand were somewhere nearby. "There can't be that many Death Eaters still at large," she said, shrugging.

"Sadly, no," said Yaxley. "Though it does leave the field wide open."

At that very moment, Rabastan lost interest in her breasts. He cast around aimlessly for a few seconds, then beelined for a goblet that sat on the mantle. Hermione leapt at the opportunity his distraction offered: she took a deep breath, and began to transform.

Yet something wasn't right. Her energy wasn't pouring into her Animagus form, it was being siphoned off by the ropes on her hands and feet. She was getting weaker, not stronger, and it was only with a mammoth effort that she managed to abort the transformation. She was left trembling with fatigue—still naked, still tied to a chair, still captive.

For the first time, an unassailable panic overwhelmed her. She was defenceless. She was in very real danger.

Yaxley was smiling at her pityingly, and Rabastan was crowing in delight.

"Turns out that your little blonde friend did have something useful to say, after all," commented Yaxley to Rabastan. He turned then to Hermione. "Too good for the registry, are you? My, my, what a naughty little Mudblood."

How did they know she was an Animagus? Hardly anyone knew that she'd managed the transition.

Rabastan was rocking his head back and forth, humming happily to himself. "Oh, Mudblood," he crooned, "she was a lot of fun, your little friend. Didn't like you very much but she still fought hard to keep your secrets."

Hermione wanted, suddenly, to vomit. She had to swallow down the acrid taste in her mouth; her skin crawled. Her roommates knew her schedule: it was pinned up on the mirror above her dresser. And she'd marked her sessions with McGonagall as "Animagus lessons."

The spectre of rape loomed over her, along with the horrible, insidious realisation that this attack had been carefully, strategically planned. At Christmas these madmen were gathering information; what else did they know? What other horrors did they have in store?

Rabastan had wandered around behind Hermione. She could hear his humming as he wandered closer and then further away. She didn't like not being able to see him and her anxiety level rose still higher. She wracked her brain for a way to escape.

"Hem, hem."

Hermione's head shot up.

"Dolores! Darling!" exclaimed Yaxley. "You're just in time. Our guest is finally lucid, and with some encouragement, I'm sure she'd be very happy to answer our questions."

At the sight of Dolores Umbridge, a little spark of anger flickered inside Hermione's belly.

Umbridge giggled unpleasantly. "Well, come along then Marietta, Marissa, we wouldn't want to keep our guest waiting!"

Yaxley conjured comfortable chairs for the three women; they sat. Umbridge simpered at Yaxley, fussing with the button on her baby pink gloves. Marietta stared at Hermione with barely concealed disgust. The other woman—who could only be Marietta's mother—sent her a vindictive glare.

"Can't we cover her up?" asked Marietta. "I don't want to look at her any more than is necessary."

Hermione felt only relief when Yaxley conjured a sheet and draped it over her. She'd far rather sit there as if waiting for a haircut than sit there naked—no matter how insulting Marietta thought she was being.

"Why is she naked in the first place?" asked Marissa, with a moue of distaste.

"We stripped her to ensure that she wasn't wearing an escape Portkey," replied Yaxley, gesturing towards a pile of fabric on an ottoman; Hermione recognised her clothes. "Turns out she had one on her robes and one on her bra."

"I'm not sure what you hope to achieve by kidnapping me," said Hermione with as much dignity as she could muster, "I can assure you, however, that it won't work."

"Nonsense!" Umbridge giggled again, and the kindling in Hermione's belly lit with a whoosh of flame. Every word that blasted woman spoke only fuelled the fire. "The way we see it," Umbridge added, waggling her pudgy little fingers in the direction of her conspirators, "it's two birds with one stone. By this evening, your sad little friends will have realised that you're gone. Once Potter finds out that we have you in our clutches, he'll do anything to get you back alive. Your life for the Elder Wand? That's a bargain! Of course," she smirked, "we're not going to make any promises about the condition you'll be in on your return."

"I don't care what you do to her," said Marissa coldly, "as long as you make sure her face is disfigured for the rest of her life."

"Perhaps the word SLUT?" suggested Marietta. "You could carve it across her cheeks."

The conversation of the two Edgecombes made Hermione feel sick, so she ignored them. Instead, she kept her focus on Umbridge, who made her feel furious.

"Well, I was thinking," said Umbridge—for all the world as if it were a dinner party and they were discussing the next parlour game to play—"about something a little more cerebral. How long does it take, Rabastan, to lose your mind to Crucio?"

"Oh, hours and hours." Rabastan grinned like a loony.

"So," said Hermione, fishing for as much background information as she could, "you found out from Lavender that I was studying to be an Animagus?"

"Indeed, we did." Umbridge smirked again. "Marietta's pen pals have proved so useful."

_Pen pals? _Hermione looked over Umbridge's head to Yaxley, who grinned savagely. The women sat so calmly at the mention of Lavender's name. _Did they not know?_ Hermione wasn't sure if that information put her in more or less danger. _Did they honestly not know what these men were capable of?_

"Pity I didn't study wandless magic, instead of Transfiguration," said Hermione. She'd been left weak by the Crucio and her failed attempt at transformation, but slowly and surely, her rage was building.

Umbridge laughed out loud. "My, what an inflated sense she has of her own abilities!"

"What was that?" asked Marietta, looking over towards the door.

"The wind?" replied Yaxley, without any evident concern. "We're protected by the Fidelius Charm and the Dark Lord's own wards, in an Unplottable residence that lies miles from human habitation—Wizarding or otherwise. No-one but us has a hope of finding this place."

So they were all here. That, decided Hermione, was for the best. She might not have mastered the finer points of wandless magic. She couldn't, for example, loosen the ropes around her wrist, even now that they'd been covered by a sheet and she had the perfect opportunity. There was, in fact, only one thing that she was capable of doing. She sent off a silent prayer of thanks for Severus Snape and his violent and terrifying teaching methods—because that one thing she could do? It might well be enough.

Hermione stared at Umbridge. She thought of that dreadful day in the bowels of the Ministry, when Umbridge and Yaxley—together—had presided over the farcical hearings of Muggle-born witches and wizards; she thought of Umbridge's ridiculous lessons in Theoretical Defence Against the Dark Arts; she thought of the thin white scar on the back of Harry's hand: _I must not tell lies_; and Hermione Granger blew up the room.

The force of the explosion threw Hermione from her chair—ropes notwithstanding. She found herself on hands and knees, barely able to support her own weight. The other occupants lay unmoving. Hermione couldn't help the uncharitable hope that they were dead, but her immediate concern was for herself. She had to find her wand, and some clothes, and she had to get to safety.

The room around her was rubble. Grabbing hold of an overturned table, she managed, with great effort, to pull herself upright.

"_Accio _wand," she muttered, scanning the room around her hopefully. Nothing. Wait. Her clothes had been over on the ottoman. She moved in that direction, staggering from handhold to handhold. She was perilously close to collapse.

She wasn't anywhere near enough when she heard feet—feet running up stairs, feet running along the hall towards her. Her heart was racing, and she cast around her in panic. There! There was a wand. It wasn't hers, but it would do. Back on her knees, she managed to grab it, and she managed somehow, to regain her feet.

As the door to the parlour flew open, Hermione took aim—the wand outstretched at the end of her aching, trembling arm.

When she saw who it was, Hermione let her arm fall back to her side. The wand slipped out of her nerveless fingers and clattered to the ground.

Severus, Ron, and Harry had burst in like avenging angels, their robes fluttering behind them like capes. Each one of them looked fierce and handsome and terribly, terribly heroic; Hermione almost laughed.

"Hermione!" shouted Ron.

"About time you lot showed up," she said. Hermione's eyes rolled back into her head, and as Severus stepped towards her, she fainted.

* * *

><p>AN: Short, I know, but the crazy girl is unconscious, so we're going to have to get a change of POV happening here! :)

Your reviews are like the song of Orpheus, singing me back from the dead. Seriously!


	33. Chapter 32: Che farò senza Euridice?

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 32: "Che farò senza Euridice?"

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: This chapter is for pooloslime and Steggie, who both made comments that have proved a better solution than I had initially planned to one or more of this story's as-yet-resolved loose ends (god, that was an awkward sentence!). The subtle influence of their comments doesn't actually show up in this chapter, but I've been thinking about their words a lot this week, so it's only fair that this one is for them.

* * *

><p>Severus caught Hermione before she hit the ground. He pushed all thought of her nudity from his mind: it spoke of an indignity that he couldn't bear to contemplate, certainly not right then, when her safety was his immediate concern.<p>

"Here," said Ron, "take these." He pulled his robes off over his head as he spoke and he used them to cover Hermione's nakedness where she hung crushed against Severus. "Get her back to Hogwarts," he added. "We'll take care of this mess."

Severus glanced around the destroyed room and the four—no five—slumped bodies that lay among the ruins.

Ron nearly laughed at his expression, his eyes crinkling up at the corners. "It's okay, Snape," he said. "We're Aurors, remember? We covered handcuffs and arrests on the first day."

"Yeah," agreed Potter. "We got this. You get Hermione to Pomfrey as quickly as possible."

Severus looked down at Hermione, where her head lolled back against his arm, exposing her throat. Her face was battered and bruised; there was dried blood around her mouth. His stomach tightened.

"Send a Patronus if you need me," he said, addressing the boys.

"Will do," said Ron. He was cuffing a body that looked remarkably like Dolores Umbridge. He wasn't being particularly gentle.

Severus was curious to know the identities of Hermione's attackers, curious to know whether they were alive or dead. But he was more interested in taking Hermione to safety. He tightened his grip around his precious burden and took the fastest route back to Hogwarts: "Wulfric," he said, and with a flash of blue light, they were gone.

Seconds later they arrived in McGonagall's office. The place was deserted—with the exception of Jocelyn who sprung up, startled, at his arrival, and Fawkes, who clucked contentedly from a tartan nest he'd built above the valance.

"Snape! You found her!"

"Hospital Wing!" He lifted her, cradling her against his chest, and headed for the door.

"Is she okay?" Jocelyn darted ahead of him, holding the door so that he could easily pass through.

"I hope so. She was lucid when we got there."

The moving stairs had carried them to the bottom. Jocelyn ducked under his arm and opened the next door. She jogged along beside him as he strode along the hall.

"McGonagall said . . . she said . . ."

"Minerva was worried that she was dead."

"Yeah." Jocelyn let out a heavy breath. "I thought I was going to explode with anxiety."

"When we got there," he said, "she was the only one standing. There were five attackers slumped on the floor, and the room itself was destroyed."

Jocelyn raised her hands to her face, and he saw that they were clenched into fists. "She beat them," she said. From the sound of her voice he could hear how close she was to tears. Right at that moment, Fawkes caught up with them, swooping around them in a low circle and then soaring ahead down the corridor.

"She beat them," he confirmed. "All I did was bring her home."

They were nearly at the Hospital Wing, and Jocelyn raced ahead, holding open the door and calling out to Poppy.

"Madam Pomfrey! Madam Pomfrey! Come quickly!"

She came at a run.

"Thank Merlin, you found her!" She squeezed his arm, then his shoulder. "The bed, Severus, put her on the bed!"

Poppy had her wand out and cast the most elaborate set of diagnostic enchantments he'd ever seen. From the bits of Hermione not covered by Ron's robes, Severus could see she was injured. In addition to the bruises on her face, her wrist and ankles were rubbed raw.

Poppy pointed her wand at the medicinal cupboards, and a veritable stream of potions flew towards them, screeching to a halt within arm's reach.

"These," she said, grabbing two jars of balm and thrusting one each at Severus and Jocelyn, "are for you. I've never seen anyone living with such low magical levels. You'd better start right away."

For the second time in his life, Severus found himself with a jar of Phoenix Balm in hand but this time he had no hesitation. He unscrewed the lid, scooped out a handful and applied it to the palm of Hermione's wand hand as if her life depended upon it. And perhaps it did.

It felt different from the last time: his sensations were magnified, but they were also disturbingly one sided.

Jocelyn watched and copied his actions. "Fucking hell, that's intense—"

Poppy's eyes didn't stray from the scrolling medicinal displays. "Miss Malfoy! Language, please!"

Jocelyn rolled her eyes. "Where I grew up," she commented while rubbing slow circles on Hermione's palm, "cunt was a term of endearment."

"If you're smart enough to voice a social critique, you're smart enough to alter your vocabulary, young lady."

Severus let the altercation roll over him. He was concentrating on the exquisite agony of the touch of Hermione's skin. He wondered whether Hermione could even feel him. It was only when he heard Jocelyn say Fawkes' name that he lifted his head and paid attention.

"Can't you fix this?" demanded Jocelyn. She'd reached Hermione's wrist, where the skin was chaffed and bleeding.

Fawkes, who had been sitting on the headboard of the bed chirped his agreement. He fluttered down to Hermione's wrist and squeezed out a single tear. It dropped onto Hermione's rough and damaged flesh and slid along the curve of her hand. As Severus watched, her skin melted back together. It was as whole and as perfect as it had always been.

Severus cleared his throat in an attempt to speak. "Her face," he croaked. Fawkes hopped up to her pillow obligingly. As the tears fell, it was as if her bruises were wiped away. "Here, too," he managed. Fawkes cried on Hermione's other wrist. Then he did her ankle, her shoulders, both knees and a thigh.

By that time, Severus had reached her elbow. He remembered the last time he'd massaged her, and how she whispered his name. He remembered the other time they'd used Phoenix Balm and her claim that her skin was singing. Was it singing now? he wondered. Could she feel this, wherever it was to which her mind had retreated?

He and Jocelyn worked up each arm to her neck, then switched positions and worked down the other arm. They massaged her feet. Throughout it all, Hermione stayed unconscious.

Poppy had administered more potions than he'd been able to keep track of.

"Poppy?" he asked finally, unable to bear it any more. "Is she . . . ?"

"I hope so." Poppy sighed. "Her magical reserves are exhausted. By rights, she should be dead. But she's not—and we can only hope it stays that way."

Snape felt as if his organs were draining out from his feet. _By rights, she should be dead_. He found himself speechless, unable to respond to Poppy in any coherent, comprehensible way.

Truth was, he'd failed Hermione. She'd needed help, and he was too slow. They'd heard her explosion from the foyer—him, Harry, Ron—heard it while they were still creeping along, trying to move silently, though they had removed the Disillusionment Charms so that they could be sure not to Hex each other. Even with the tracking charm it had taken them another five minutes to figure out exactly where she was.

How on earth had it taken them six hours to realise she was missing?

"In three hours," said Poppy, "I'll get you two to repeat the massage. Until then, there's nothing to do but wait."

Jocelyn slipped a hand into the crook of his elbow and laid her head on his arm. "Come on," she said, turning him around and leading him back to Hermione's side. "I need you to conjure us some chairs," she said. "We've only covered stools in class and mine wasn't particularly comfy."

Severus forced himself to do as she asked and sat when he was directed.

"She's going to be okay," said Jocelyn.

He stared at her. "You don't know that," he said.

"Yes, I do," she replied stubbornly. "She's not dead, remember? And we're not going to let anything bad happen. We're not."

Jocelyn sat beside him, and time passed. Eventually Poppy had their dinner delivered on trays. Severus found himself unable to eat. Swallowing seemed impossible. Shortly after the trays—blessedly—disappeared, Harry and Ron turned up. They clattered down the aisle, enthusiasm and noise dropping immediately when they saw that Hermione lay unmoving.

"Is she okay?" Harry sounded uncertain.

Severus said nothing. He kept his eyes on Hermione's face.

"Touch and go," said Jocelyn.

"But she's going to be okay, right?" asked Ron. "Snape? She's going to be okay?" His voice was high with anxiety, and Severus found himself looking at the boy almost despite himself. Ron's eyes were wide and blue.

"Poppy hopes so," he managed. His voice felt stiff and rusty. "We have to wait and see."

"She's magically exhausted," explained Jocelyn.

"Like last time?" Ron stepped forwards and gently—ever so gently—took hold of Hermione's hand.

"Yeah, except worse."

"Bloody hell." Ron stroked the back of her hand and then reached out to tuck a stray curl back behind her ear.

Severus felt a sudden and unexpected kinship. They both loved her: he and Ron. And they were both going to be lost without her.

Harry let out a noisy breath. "We're supposed to get back to the station," he said. "We just wanted to check that she was okay."

"Did you catch the people who did it?" asked Jocelyn.

"Yeah," said Harry. "Hermione had knocked them all unconscious, which made it pretty easy."

Severus cleared his throat. "Who was it?"

"Dolores Umbridge, Bertrand Yaxley, Rabastan Lestrange, Marietta Edgecombe and her mother, Marissa Edgecombe."

"Yaxley worked with Umbridge on the Muggle-Born Registration Commission," interpolated Ron. "The Edgecombes and Umbridge go way back—it was Mrs. Edgecombe who monitored the Floo connections for Umbridge while she was here, remember? And I guess Lestrange went along with Yaxley for the ride."

"The three women are all claiming that they knew nothing and were under Imperius the whole time," said Potter. "It's an easy defence to maintain for the time being, since Yaxley offed himself as soon as he came to and Lestrange is incoherent."

"He's dead?" Snape felt no emotion at the news.

"Poison in his tooth, like the Death Eater that attacked us at Hogsmeade—he was the first to come round. We managed to disarm the others while they were still unconscious."

"What will happen to the others?" asked Jocelyn.

"The women are being questioned right now. Lestrange, though, is in solitary confinement—he's completely insane. You can't get a straight answer out of him and he keeps threatening to bite someone." Ron pulled a face to show how little he relished the prospect of being bitten by Rabastan.

"But what happens if they continue to deny everything?" Jocelyn was persistent. "They won't get away with it, will they?"

"No." Harry shook his head. "We filed the paperwork to use Veritaserum. Under the new laws that Kaleisha Shacklebolt passed the detainee has to be read a certain number of warnings, and they get three days to decide whether they'd rather tell the truth of their own accord."

Severus shot him a glance. "It also takes three days to ensure that the antidote is out of the suspect's system. The new law is in everybody's best interest."

"I didn't know that," said Harry. He reached out and put a hand on Ron's shoulder. "We should go," he added.

"Are you helping with the interrogations?" asked Jocelyn.

"A bit. We've got a bunch of meetings with Tricklebank, too—trying to figure out if anyone else was involved, that kind of thing. Lots of paperwork."

Ron let go of Hermione's hand reluctantly.

"She'll be really glad you're here," he said to Snape, his blue eyes serious. "Glad that you're both here," he added, including Jocelyn, too. "Send us a message when she wakes, okay? A Patronus?"

"Yes," said Severus.

"Oh," said Harry. "I almost forgot." He pulled Hermione's wand out of his pocket and laid it beside her bed. "Found that in the mess."

As they walked off, towards the doors, Harry's conversation was already back on their job: "Don't forget that Tricklebank wants to talk to Neville, too. We still have to swing by the tower and get him."

Jocelyn and Snape continued their vigil. Precisely three hours after the last massage, Poppy emerged from her office.

"It's time," she said.

Poppy ran diagnostics before and after; Jocelyn and Snape completed the massage.

"Well?" Severus demanded, once they were done.

"Her magical levels are improving. Not as rapidly as last time, but then, they weren't as low as this last time, either."

Jocelyn: "When do you think she'll wake up?"

Poppy paused, considering. "I don't know," she said eventually. "She'll wake when she's ready." Poppy ran her hands down her apron, and changed topic. "Now," she said, "young lady, if you're planning to be in your common room by curfew, you need to get a move on."

Jocelyn raised one shoulder defiantly and ignored the question. She stayed where she was, rubbing slow circles on Hermione's wand hand.

"Like that, is it?" Poppy shook her head, but there was a gentleness to her reproving expression. "If you're planning on staying here, you'd better be in bed—with the light out—by eleven."

Jocelyn's head shot up to look at her.

"Hermione needs you at full strength, understood? I'll not have you exhausted." Poppy pointed her wand at the adjacent bed and turned down the covers. She conjured some striped pyjamas, a new toothbrush and a towel; she turned to leave.

Jocelyn called her back. "Wait—Thanks, Madam Pomfrey."

"You're welcome, dear." She looked at Severus as she turned to go. "Hermione needs you to be alert, too," she said.

Severus had no intention of sleeping while Hermione was in danger, but then, while Jocelyn was off getting ready for bed, Minerva dropped by and threw a spanner in his works.

"How is she?" she asked, looking down at her and stroking—as everyone seemed to do—the curls back from her forehead.

He shrugged. "We're waiting to find out," he said.

"I suppose you're planning to stay here until she's better," she said.

"Someone has to keep an eye on her." It seemed a horribly inadequate explanation. "She's still at risk," he said. "Edgecombe broke into Hogwarts without anyone noticing."

He was being stupid, he knew it. He couldn't be more obvious if he tried.

Minerva nodded. "And your classes?" she asked, her voice completely neutral.

Severus looked at Hermione, at her closed eyes, the unnatural stillness of her body. Fuck his classes. "There are three days left of school," he said. "Exams are next week. The time could be well spent in private study."

Minerva sighed and lowered herself into the chair left vacant by Jocelyn's absence. "Severus," she said slowly; he braced himself for a lecture. "I can't tell you how happy I am that you found her. Mr Weasley told me how you got around the Fidelius charm. He was full of praise for your bravery and ingenuity—said he couldn't fathom how you'd managed to keep your eyes closed. He himself was, er, I believe his exact words were 'shitting himself in terror'."

She paused, and Severus waited for the hammer to drop. Waited for the "But" that would preface her critique. He thought about the words "inappropriate," "propriety," "responsibility."

"I will cover your classes for you, Severus,"—surprised, he lifted his eyes to her face—"on one condition. You," she said, looking at him severely over her glasses, "need to get at least six hours sleep. I shall send Viktor and Bill in shifts to look after her. Have Poppy make you up a bed."

Pushing herself up on the arms of her chair, she rose to her feet.

"Minerva," he said, plucking at her sleeve as she passed. She stopped, and he reached for her hand and grabbed it. She squeezed it reassuringly.

Severus had always imagined that Minerva would judge him harshly. He'd heard her on the subject of lecherous pedagogues and her opinions were forthright and uncompromising, tending towards violence. Here she was, giving him space.

She knew, she must. He opened his mouth and took a terrible risk.

"I love her," he whispered, saying it aloud for the very first time.

Minerva squeezed his fingers again. "Have you told her?" she asked.

He shook his head.

"Maybe you should," she said. She let go of his hand and left.

* * *

><p>True to her word, Minerva sent Krum and then William Weasley to stand guard. At first Severus thought he wouldn't be capable of sleep, but he drifted off very quickly, waking when they changed over in the middle of the night—at which point he repeated the massage treatment—and then not again until the first light of dawn was bleeding in through the Hospital Wing windows. He dreamed that Hermione was awake and teasing him from her bed, but she wasn't.<p>

After breakfast, he forced Jocelyn to go to class. She went unwillingly. He sat beside Hermione's bedside for the entire day, the long stillness broken only by the three-hourly massage treatment and a short visit from Hooch. When Jocelyn came back in the middle of the afternoon, they repeated the massage once again.

Poppy ran her diagnostics: Hermione's magical levels were at 77%, but nothing else had changed. "Everything else looks to be fine," she said. She pulled up the sheet and smoothed it over Hermione's chest. It looked too neat, too sterile, and it tore at Severus' heart.

"What does that mean?" demanded Jocelyn.

"It means," said Poppy, taking a deep breath, "that I'm at something of a loss. Before, she should have been dead—but she wasn't. Now, she should be awake—but she isn't." She held out her hands in a gesture of inadequacy. "I'm reading everything I can in the hope of finding a solution, but my best hope is that she will just sit up and open her eyes."

She had dark circles under her eyes, and Severus wondered if she had slept. With a sad smile, she hurried back to her office—there, no doubt, she would return to her books.

As soon as Poppy was gone, Jocelyn mussed up the sheet. "What?" she asked defensively at Snape's look. "Made her look like she was dead." She took Hermione's arms and tried to arrange them so that they looked more natural. "You know what I think?" she asked, still fidgeting with Hermione's fingers.

"What?" Severus felt like he was swimming in despair.

"I think we should sing to her."

Her words seemed to come from a long way away. Severus forced his eyes to her face. "Sing what?" he asked, turning the idea over in his head.

"Sing our song. You know, the _Quam pulchra es_." When he didn't answer, she went on: "Maybe she'll hear it, wherever she is, and come back to join in."

To sing her back from the dead.

"It can't hurt, right?" asked Jocelyn.

He stood up in a rush, and Jocelyn lifted both shoulders happily as he stepped towards the bed.

"You stand on that side," she said, "and hold her other hand." Jocelyn had hold of Hermione's right hand and she reached out over the bed to hold his hand, too. They made a little triangle: two standing, one lying; two awake, one in a coma. "I think we should think about how much we love her while we sing."

Severus gave Jocelyn her note. Then they began.

The texture sounded thin with only two voices, but after the first few notes, Severus didn't notice: they were—for the first time together—making magic. The now-familiar sensation of the sympathetic sorcery chased away his terror and his guilt. He could feel his entire body vibrating in concert with the air around him, with every resonant surface, with the fibre of his soul. He could hear Jocelyn's voice, twisted over and around his own, charting a consonant yet independent trajectory of magical power. He could feel the love they were producing, as palpable yet invisible as his very breath.

When they came to the end, his face was wet with tears. He stood still for a moment, his eyes closed, turning himself over to the last echoes. He wasn't quite ready for it to be over, wasn't quite ready for the return to reality.

"That was amazing."

"Yes," he said, and then his eyes flew open—for it wasn't Jocelyn who spoke.

Hermione gave him a tremulous smile. "I knew you could do it," she said to Jocelyn.

Jocelyn stood with her mouth agape, her face contorted with tears. She moved to speak, but only a hoarse choking sound emerged. "We . . ." she managed. "You . . ." She crouched down to bury her face between her shoulder and Hermione's sheets.

Severus was reluctant to let go of Hermione's hand, but he did so in order to step around the bed. He picked Jocelyn up—all gangly fourteen-years of her—and, by perching on the edge of Hermione's mattress, managed to hold her on his lap. He wrapped his arms around her and let her cry on his shoulder. He wasn't that far from hysterical tears himself and the act of comforting Jocelyn helped him to calm down.

He looked up and met Poppy's eyes. He wondered how long she'd been standing there.

"Bless you both," she whispered. She had her wand out and she crossed to Hermione's side. "How are you feeling?" she asked quietly.

"I feel okay," replied Hermione. "A bit fuzzy around the edges—similar to when my magical levels were low."

"Your magical levels _are_ low," said Poppy. She was casting diagnostics. "I'm afraid you won't be able to do any magic or to get out of bed for several days. With these two assigned to massage duty, however, it won't be too long before you're back in action."

Jocelyn's tears had subsided, but she stayed where she was a little longer, her head buried in his robes.

"What else is wrong with me?" asked Hermione, bracing herself for bad news.

"Now that you're awake? Nothing!"

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione, catching hold of the evident relief in Poppy's voice. "How long was I asleep?"

"Nearly twenty-four hours," answered Poppy, looking at Hermione over the top of her glasses. "I wasn't sure if you were ever going to wake."

Hermione blinked at Poppy. She looked up at Severus and met his eye. "I've been in a coma?" she asked.

He nodded.

Her eyes moved slowly back towards Poppy. He saw the moment that she had an awful thought: recognised the way that her mouth pulled back and down, saw the light in her eyes falter.

"Poppy?" she said, a dreadful urgency in her voice. "I think I might need an emergency contraceptive." Severus felt his whole body clench at the words. He wanted to flay Rabastan Lestrange. "I—I was unconscious for a time, and naked when I woke up. I—I don't know what they did to me."

"Not that," said Poppy firmly, reaching out and taking Hermione's hand. "I gave you a full examination when Severus brought you in. I can guarantee you weren't raped. I swear it."

At that, Hermione's lip trembled. He could see her fighting against the tears, but her face screwed up despite her best efforts, and she, too, began to cry. Severus reached out his near hand and she clutched at it, crushing it between her fingers. She twisted against the pillows and covered her face with her other hand. Her sorrow was so private that it felt like an intrusion to witnessed it.

"We can go if you would like," he offered. Jocelyn's face emerged, and she looked at Hermione though she didn't speak.

"No—please, please don't leave."

He pressed her fingers, hoping it felt reassuring.

He should make her that contraceptive potion again, he thought inconsequentially. Even as he thought it, he realised it was a ridiculous—dangerous—connection to make: she was worried about the violation of her personal liberty, not with pregnancy. Still, he would have plenty of time once semester was over, and that was something useful he could do to fill it up.

After a few minutes, Hermione recovered her equanimity sufficiently to sit, propped up on the pillows, and to pick at a tray of food. Severus booted Jocelyn off his lap and into her chair, where she proceeded to regale Hermione with a highly detailed and rather exaggerated tale of the steps he had taken to find her.

"Snape! That reminds me—we promised to send Ron and Harry a Patronus when Hermione woke up."

"We did," he agreed. "Would you like the honour?"

"Nah," said Jocelyn. "You do it. Milt told me that my Patronus is utterly terrifying and that I wasn't to send it to anyone without warning them first."

As Severus sent his Phoenix Patronus winging on its way towards the Central Auror Station, Hermione asked Jocelyn, with a laugh in her voice, what animal her Patronus was.

"A great, big, SCARY snake!" exclaimed Jocelyn, posing like a cobra ready to strike.

Hermione shuddered. "Thank you for the warning! My last few experiences with giant snakes were rather dreadful. In second year, actually, I was Petrified for months by a Basilisk—I got terribly behind in my classes."

Only Hermione Granger would characterise the agony of Petrification in terms of how behind she got in school work.

"As you can see, Jocelyn, the Basilisk is responsible for Hermione's deplorable grades ever since." Severus shook his head mournfully. "She never quite managed to catch up to the rest of her class."

"Ha ha," said Hermione, narrowing her eyes at him. She changed topic abruptly. "What . . ." She swallowed and tried again. "Before the boys get here, what happened to the kidnappers?"

Jocelyn rattled off the summary.

"Yaxley's dead?" Hermione shuddered. "I wish it had been Rabastan. They'll find some way to prosecute them, right? Umbridge won't wriggle out of things again?"

"They're going to use Veritaserum," said Jocelyn. "Already filed the paperwork."

"If Rabastan is as mad as they say, not even Veritaserum will work," Severus added. "Almost certainly they'll have to subpoena his memories. Whatever it takes, though, I feel certain your personal Auror squad will ensure that justice is served."

Hermione's head dropped back against her pillow. "His memories," she repeated slowly. She looked devastated.

"Hermione," he said. "What is it?" She pressed her lips together, shaking both her head and her hand as if it were nothing. She was trying to brush him off. Severus leant forwards in his chair. "Did he do something to you?" She shook her head again, looking close to tears. Severus rose to his feet. He reached out and took her hand, turning it palm up and holding it between both of his. "Tell me," he said, as gently as he could while a monster of fury towards Rabastan raged in his chest.

Hermione closed her eyes. "Do you remember my friend?" she whispered. "The one who needed the Tansy Root?"

"Yes."

"Rabastan . . . raped her, tortured her, to get information about me. They've been planning this a long time."

"Hermione," he said gently, "this was not your fault."

She pulled a face, and he knew he'd hit a nerve. "Maybe not, but she doesn't even remember what happened, and now some Auror is going to see it, and her terrible, private ordeal will become public knowledge—without her consent."

At that moment, the doors opened and the sound of Ron's voice floated over from the entrance, calling Hermione's name. She pulled herself up into a seated position and rubbed at her eyes roughly to brush away the tears.

"Hermione," Severus said sharply, tugging on her hand. She looked up and met his eyes. He turned and stared pointedly at her wand, which sat on the side table, and then gestured to himself. Hermione furrowed her brows, but nodded. Standing so that his back hid his actions from the rest of the room, Severus pocketed the wand; Hermione hid her confusion, reaching out instead to greet her best friends.

Once the hubbub of greetings and exclamations had died down, Severus seized the opportunity to exploit Harry Potter's better nature.

"There is a chance," he said, "a slim chance that I may be able to convince Rabastan to co-operate with your investigations."

"That would be brilliant!" exclaimed Harry.

"Perhaps you could arrange for me to see him; the sooner the better, of course."

"Of course! I'll let you know as soon as possible."

Severus graced Potter with a small smile that didn't reach his eyes.

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><p>AN: As always, your review will be invested in the future chapters of this story, and returns will be paid as a dividend divided among the shareholders.

And, what is Snape doing with Hermione's wand?

Oh, and "Che faro' senza Euridice" is the song that Gluck's Orpheus sings after Eurydice dies the second time; it's a beautiful song and because I'm a big dyke I particularly like hearing it sung by Stephanie Blythe, or even in the classic old Janet Baker version. Andreas Scholl also does a nice version if you're into countertenors (which I am). The title translates to "What will I do without my Eurydice?"


	34. Chapter 33: Convalescence

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 33: Convalescence

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Hey, friends! Did you see the news? Edith Windsor for the win! Keeping gay families together and lowering our tax bills and looking glamorous the entire time! Hooray!

Anyway, this chapter is for Edie and Thea (there's a beautiful, glorious documentary about them called a very long engagement; I think about it pretty much any time I write about the old lesbians in this story, FYI), but also for Amaytha, who has written a slew of on-point inspirational reviews lately, and for MaxManuka (remember when this story was on hiatus and Max wrote a bunch of reviews that single-handedly got me back to posting again? you all should be eternally grateful!). As I said, we're running out of chapters rather fast these days . . .

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><p>Hermione got better very slowly. By Friday, Poppy finally allowed her to study her books, but she was still denied her wand—just as well really, since Snape had it tucked inside his pocket. She wasn't clear about what he intended to do with it, though she could guess it wasn't something legal and she refrained from pressing him with questions. What she tried to do was to treasure the brighter aspects of her forced confinement. For one, Snape was with her almost the entire time. He disappeared when the boys came to visit, and she knew there was some kind of night watch scheduled to allow him time to sleep, but the rest of the time he sat beside her bed and kept her company—guarding over her, allowing her to feel safe despite her recent ordeal. Jocelyn was there, too, whenever she wasn't in class. Hermione was itching for them to sing together—and not just because she thought it past time they destroyed the wand, but also because she wanted to experience how it felt. Hearing the two of them musicking had filled her with such fierce joy that she found herself almost desperate to try it as a trio.<p>

One afternoon, with the sun slanting through the windows to lie warm on her bed, she asked Snape about their breakthrough: "What changed between you and Jocelyn that made the magic possible?"

"Me, mostly," he said. "You were right: it wasn't something she needed to do, but something we needed to do. As soon as I stopped thinking about whether or not she was going to be able to pull it off, and focussed on what we were capable of offering together, the magic emerged."

"I can't wait to try," she confessed.

He raised an eyebrow. "I assure you," he said, "the moment Poppy gives you leave to perform magic, destroying the Elder Wand will be top of our list of priorities."

On Saturday morning Harry managed to arrange a meeting between Severus Snape and Rabastan Lestrange. Ron came to sit with her while he was gone. It was their first chance to talk alone since Hermione's disappearance, and as such, was long overdue.

"Are you mad at me?" she asked, her mind on the scene in the dining hall.

"Merlin, no!" Ron held out his palm and she slipped her hand into his. "I knew what your answer would be and I chose to ask you anyway. I could've easily laughed it off, or announced that I planned to ask in a more romantic setting."

"Have you talked to Neville?"

He shook his head. "You disappeared about ten seconds later! I've spent every waking moment since hunting for you, or down at the Station dealing with the fallout. I haven't had a chance to talk to Neville." He screwed up his face and shrugged. "What about you?" he asked. "Have you talked to Snape?"

"No." She shook her head. "At the end of next week I'll no longer be a student—no longer be _his_ student. I'm going to wait."

"You should have seen him," said Ron, staring off into the middle distance of memory. "I honestly don't know how he managed to keep his eyes closed long enough to break through the Fidelius Charm without going totally barmy. Every second was terrifying; I nearly shat myself." He turned, seeking out her gaze. "I'm serious, Hermione, I love you so much, and yet without the blindfold, I would've totally failed you. As it was I nearly tore it off about a hundred times."

She squeezed his hand. "I was so glad to see you guys. I don't think I could have made it out of that building under my own steam."

"Snape told us the story about the Golden Gryphon and the Heir of Slytherin." Ron rubbed his nose. "Do you reckon Harry is the Heir of Slytherin?"

Hermione tipped her head from side to side. "Tom Riddle was the Heir of Slytherin," she said. "No-one can argue with that."

"Sure," said Ron. "But Harry inherited some of his powers, maybe he's the Heir of Slytherin, too?"

"It's complicated," said Hermione, wrinkling her nose. "When Riddle re-incarnated, for example, he used Harry's blood—if it had been the other way around, then we might be able to argue quite convincingly that Harry was in some way or form a descendant of Salazar Slytherin. As it is, the conclusions are not so straightforward." She pulled a face. "Let me be perfectly clear," she added, "I'm not above pretending Harry that is the Heir of Slytherin if it proves an expedient way to change Wizarding society."

"That's the Hermione I know and love," replied Ron, nodding sagely.

The door opened, and when Jocelyn stuck her head in, Hermione waved invitingly.

"Hey, guys," she said, sinking into a chair. "What's going on?"

"We were just talking about Harry's freakishly evil ability to talk to snakes," said Ron.

"Snakes are alright," said Jocelyn, frowning.

"Watch out, Ron!" teased Hermione. "I hear that Jocelyn's Patronus is a great big snake."

"Ugh." Ron shuddered.

"What?" demanded Jocelyn, on the defensive. "I'm in Slytherin, remember? The snake is our mascot—"

"Right! The snake is your mascot because Salazar Nut-Job Slytherin hid a ruddy great big Muggle-hating Basilisk in the bowels of the castle!"

"The Basilisk didn't hate Muggles! It's an animal, it kills indiscriminately."

"Indiscriminately? That makes it better?" demanded Ron. His face had gone a rather mottled red. "That snake damn nearly killed Hermione, and Harry, and Ginny!"

"Children!" Poppy's voice cut through the argument with the force of magical intervention. "If you cannot lower your voices you will have to leave."

Ron and Jocelyn stared at each other, fuming.

"I beg your pardon, Madam Pomfrey," said Jocelyn stiffly.

Poppy glanced from one to the other, her hands on her hips. "That was your last warning," she said. She retreated back into her office, leaving an awkward silence in her wake.

"I've been reading up on the Founders' history," said Hermione, hoping to steer the conversation back into companionable territory. "Godric and Salazar were very close friends for many, many years. And don't forget it was the Middle Ages! The Muggle world was terribly hostile towards wizardingkind. Bathilda Bagshot grossly underplays the danger, talking about Witches who loved to be burned at the stake, but you only have to think about what transpired when the Witches concerned were separated from their wands." A wave of nausea rose up at the thought.

Ironically, it was her bad reaction that caused her friends to unbend somewhat: as she paused, forcing herself to breathe, and swallowing—hard—Ron and Jocelyn stopped glaring at each other long enough to look concerned. Jocelyn offered her a glass of water, and she gratefully took a sip.

"Salazar Slytherin had plenty of reasons to mistrust Muggles," said Hermione when she felt able to continue.

Ron grunted.

"Why was Gryffindor so friendly towards them, then?" asked Jocelyn.

"He wasn't necessarily friendly towards Muggles," replied Hermione, drawing a careful distinction. "He was friendly towards Muggle-borns. Thing is, once you accept Muggle-born students, then their parents have to know. Other people will find out. Slytherin wanted to keep the two worlds entirely separate—he didn't want anyone who wasn't a witch or wizard to know anything of how the wizarding world worked."

"So what would have happened to the Muggle-born students under Salazar?" asked Jocelyn. She sounded genuinely interested.

Hermione shrugged. "Without access to wands or training, they would never have become particularly powerful. And if they were recognised by their Muggle community, they would have been speedily dealt with."

"That's dreadful!"

"Blimey," said Ron.

"There is some evidence—hotly debated, of course—that Godric Gryffindor was a changeling," said Hermione.

"A what?" asked Jocelyn.

"We studied them in History of Magic," said Ron, looking a little smug.

"Right, in fourth year. Perhaps you could explain it to Jocelyn."

Ron's grin faltered. "Er, you do it," he said. "You're better at such things."

She gave him a look; he had the grace to pull a face. "A changeling, Jocelyn," she said, "is when a wizarding family with a Squib child finds a Muggle-born child of a similar age and switches the two children without the consent of the Muggle parents."

"Huh," said Jocelyn.

"The poor parents," said Ron.

Jocelyn shrugged. "The kids might have been better off."

"That's just the kind of thing a Slytherin would say," said Ron, pointing his finger at her for good measure.

Jocelyn bridled. "It's Godric Gryffindor we're talking about, you idiot," she snapped. "How do you think he felt about it?"

Luckily, before Poppy could re-emerge and banish the both of them, Severus came back.

"Any luck, Snape?" asked Ron.

"I'm sorry to say that the results did not seem particularly promising." He sneered in a way that was vaguely apologetic.

Hermione scanned his face. Was he speaking in riddles? What had he tried to do? What had he done?"

"I did hear some interesting new information, though." Severus turned towards her. "It transpires, Hermione, that the house in which you were held recently changed hands. I'll give you three guesses who bought it."

Hermione had no idea. "One of the kidnappers?"

"You're cheating," said Severus. "That's five guesses. Jocelyn? Care to hazard a guess?"

Jocelyn, still glowering, looked up and met his eye. "Lucius Malfoy," she said.

"Correct."

"Have they brought him in for questioning yet?" asked Ron, rising immediately to his feet. Severus shook his head. "I should get back to the station," said Ron. He dropped a quick kiss on Hermione's head and headed for the door.

"Don't forget to study for your exams next week!" she called after him. Without turning around he raised a hand to acknowledge that he'd heard—she thought the likelihood of him doing any study was effectively nil. Out of the corner of her eye, Hermione saw Severus slip her wand back onto the table beside her bed.

"He's such a dunderhead," said Jocelyn, watching the door as it swung shut behind Ron.

Her choice of words brought a smile to Hermione's lips. "He can be," she acknowledged. "He only bickers with those he loves." She decided to ask a question while it was fresh in her mind. "Totally unrelated question:"—Jocelyn looked up—"is Draco gay?"

Jocelyn spread her hands. "He says he's bi, claims he's more interested in the quality of his relationships than the gender of the person."

"Huh. You should set him up on a date with Astoria Greengrass."

"Daphne's sister? Why?"

"Just some gossip I heard. I think they'd be good together."

"Well, he needs a date for the ball," said Jocelyn. "I'll see what I can do."

Severus had settled himself into Ron's abandoned chair. "What—in particular—did Weasley do to deserve your ire, Jocelyn?"

She blew out a noisy breath. "Well, among other things he thinks Harry Potter is the Heir of Slytherin."

"Technically," said Severus, "he is." Jocelyn opened her mouth to protest, but he silenced her with a raised finger. "Traditionally, 'Slytherin' meant Parselmouth. These days the wizardingworld is so interbred that almost anyone could claim to be a descendant of Salazar, but it is those who have inherited the trait of speaking with snakes who are the 'heirs' of Slytherin in the literal sense."

"So then _anyone _could be the Heir of Slytherin!" Jocelyn snapped irritably.

"Parselmouths are rare," replied Severus calmly.

"And made rarer," added Hermione, "by the fact that you actually have to try speaking to a snake to know whether or not you can do it."

Severus nodded. "And of those who can, many try to conceal it."

"Why?" demanded Jocelyn, and then answered her own question. "Because it's 'freakishly evil'!"

"Ron was joking," said Hermione. She didn't manage to sound particularly convincing.

"Everyone's prejudiced against Slytherin! I'm so sick of it!"

"Jocelyn—where are you going?"

"To study; I've got exams on Monday, remember?"

Hermione watched Jocelyn stalk off through narrowed eyes. "Severus," she said thoughtfully as the door closed behind her, "do you . . . "

At the sight of Severus her question evaporated. He didn't seem to have moved, but whereas a moment before his hand had been empty, he now held a bottle of memories.

"Is that . . . ?" she asked, sitting straighter in the bed.

"Yes," he said heavily. "It is Rabastan's." Hermione forced herself to take several deep breaths. "I also," he continued, "looked for his memories of you while you were unconscious; there were very few. It seems that it was Yaxley who knocked you out and tied you up."

Hermione realised that she was wringing her hands. She forced herself to hold them still and she thought about Snape's words: no-one would ever see whatever humiliation she'd been subject to, on the other hand, she herself would never know. Perhaps, she wondered, it was for the best.

"Hermione . . ." Severus said her name slowly. He sat with his head lowered, his eyes covered by his hair.

"Snape," she said sharply, relieved when he lifted his head and met her eyes. "If you tell me that you've failed me, I'll . . . I'll blow up this room in my fury. And then Poppy Pomfrey will be very annoyed."

He swallowed, his Adam's apple jerking in his throat.

"Because of you, Severus, I had the means to fight back." Hermione thought about how upset Ron had been after their time at Malfoy Manor. She had been the one tortured physically, but he was equally traumatised by his own impotence, by his inability to stop her pain. "You can't stop bad things from happening, you can only equip people to deal with disaster when it does happen."

"We should have got there sooner," said Severus.

"You got there precisely at the moment I needed you." Hermione stared at him, willing him out of his funk. "I am still alive," she said. "I am physically unharmed."

"Yes," he said finally. His eyes dropped to the phial in his hand. He visibly pulled himself together. "This," he said, "belongs to Lavender Brown. I removed the memory so thoroughly that her only chance of prosecution lies in this bottle. If she chooses to pass this on to the authorities, it will seem as if Rabastan's Obliviate was poorly executed and that her own memory returned. The attack," he paused, "was brutal. She might prefer not to watch it."

He passed the bottle to Hermione, and she, for want of a better hiding place, tucked it into her pillowslip. Hermione felt dreadful. She tried to remind herself that the attack on Lavender wasn't her fault, that there was no way she could have predicted the moves of her enemies, no way that she could have stopped it.

"I feel guilty," she confessed. "About Lavender, about Marietta. I even feel guilty about abandoning Umbridge to the centaurs."

Severus gave her a long look. "You can't stop bad things from happening," he said, quoting her back to herself.

"I know that," she said. She bunched the blanket on her lap into folds. "I have always been a target: I'm Harry's friend, my parents are Muggles. But I made some enemies all on my own. My means were not always justified by my ends."

"You cannot change the past; you can't always atone for it either."

"Sometimes you can," she said.

He shrugged. "Sometimes—" He broke off at the sound of hurried feet and raised voices in the hall.

The noise brought Poppy out of her office.

Kingsley, McGonagall, and two uniformed Aurors burst into the room.

"Minister Shacklebolt!" expostulated McGonagall. "May I remind you that your presence here is entirely inappropriate!" Minerva was struggling to keep up with Kingsley's long strides.

"Minerva," he replied, coming to an abrupt stop and reaching out to grip hold of her arm. "I'm just trying to get this sorted out as quickly _and politely _as possible." He raised his eyebrows at her, imploring her for some assistance, then continued his rapid approach. "Severus!" he said with relief. "I am pleased to have found you."

"To what do I owe the honour?" asked Severus, rising to his feet. He gave Perkins and Coxton a cold stare.

"It's about Rabastan Lestrange," said Kingsley. "In the short time since your visit, the prisoner has developed a rather uncomfortable hex affecting his, er," he winced, "genital region."

"Indeed." Severus managed to sneer in such a way that it expressed both surprise and a disinclination to hear further details. "I can't say that we discussed his . . . _genital region_ in our brief meeting this morning. I'm not sure that I can help you."

Hermione realised that Severus had done at least two illegal things with her wand, and her immediate reaction included a frisson of delight.

"Yes, well," Kingsley shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other, "you must admit that the timing is rather co-incidental. And Potter neglected to collect your wand before you entered the interview room."

"I see," said Severus. "You suspect me of having cast the curse. Any other accusations that you might care to make? Did I alter his memories, perhaps? or otherwise tamper with the evidence?"

How did he always do that? Lie by omission while waving the truth in people's faces?

"Don't be ridiculous, Severus! We are not here to persecute you,"—Kingsley, it seemed, genuinely intended to diffuse the situation, though the expressions on the Aurors' faces suggested that they were, in fact, there to persecute Severus—"quite the opposite! If you are prepared to let me see your wand, I would be very happy to exonerate you."

Severus drew his wand with an elaborate flourish and handed it to Kingsley, hilt over wrist.

"Thank you," said Kingsley, taking the wand and gracing Severus with a small smile. "_Priori incantatem_!"

A ghostly Severus dropped from his own wand, pulled himself upright and then disappeared with a twirl and a puff of smoke. The phenomenon repeated.

"I Disapparated in both directions," commented Severus dryly.

Next to appear was a smoky grey toothbrush, which foamed up the air around it into a mess of smoky bubbles.

"I brushed my teeth this morning," he added.

A set of robes followed the toothbrush, and standing to attention, they buttoned themselves with military precision.

"I also got dressed." Hermione could have sworn that Severus was enjoying himself.

Kingsley hurriedly cancelled the charm. "Thank you, Severus," he said, returning his wand.

"This is nonsense!" snapped Perkins. "You want me to believe that Lestrange cast the spell on himself?"

"Well, Snape couldn't very well have done it without his wand," replied Kingsley sensibly.

Severus tilted back his head and stared down his nose at the Aurors. "Bellatrix was particularly fond of the Dolens membrum," he said. "She was also rather good at timed curses. Can you really be certain that the curse began today?"

"He started screaming uncontrollably right after you left! It was a pretty clear indication!"

"That was the first time he screamed during his captivity?" Severus sounded unconvinced.

"No," acknowledged Coxton. "He screamed a lot when he first came round, too."

"And did anyone examine his, er, _genital region_ when he first arrived?"

"Not to my knowledge," replied Coxton, shooting a glance at Perkins' furious face and answering as if in spite of his better judgement.

"Indeed," said Severus. He let the matter fall.

"Well, gentlemen," said McGonagall, relief evident in her voice. "Allow me to escort you from the premises."

"Not so fast," said Perkins. "We're not finished."

Kingsley sighed and shot the Auror an irritated glance from the corner of his eye. "There was one other thing, Severus, which I'm sure can be cleared up just as quickly." Kingsley ran a hand over his closely shaven head. "There have been reports that the Order of the Phoenix has set itself up in opposition to the Ministry."

Surely Kingsley didn't believe that?

"One informant claims that you have created a new Dark Mark and that you are setting yourself up to replace You-Know-Who." Kingsley opened his hands in apology. "It's a ridiculous claim, I know," he said quickly.

"Severus," said McGonagall sharply. "This line of questioning is completely inappropriate. You are under no obligation to answer anything."

Hermione's heart was beating uncomfortably hard.

"Got something to hide, have you?" asked Perkins, bristling aggressively.

"If you won't answer our questions here," added Coxton, "then we'll have to take you down the Station."

Severus met Hermione's eyes for a long second. He was standing, she realised, less than twenty feet from where he'd shown a previous Minister his arm, in very different circumstance.

Her heart was beating so loudly that she half expected the others to turn and to look at her in surprise.

"It's in everyone's interest to put an end to these rumours as quickly as possible," said Kingsley. He clearly had no idea of the position he'd put Severus in. "If you wouldn't mind showing us your arm?"

What on earth would Severus do?

Severus turned to face Kingsley. The corners of his mouth shifted up, but his expression was almost as far from a smile as it was possible to get. "Very well," he said. Slowly and carefully he rolled up his sleeves. He began with his blank right arm; his skin was so pale that Hermione could see the blue shadows of his veins running through his flesh.

She thought her heart was going to burst out of her throat. Her whole body seemed to shake in time to its beat.

Hermione stared at him, bracing herself for the moment when his phoenix tattoo became visible. From where he was standing, though, that arm was hidden from her view—even once his other sleeve was also rolled up.

"Thank you, Severus," said Kingsley. He turned towards the Aurors, who were scowling, their arms crossed. "I'm glad to see that has cleared things up. Now, let's be off." The Aurors didn't move. "Don't you have business in Hogsmeade to attend to?" asked Kingsley pointedly. That caught their attention, and reluctantly, they began to move towards the door.

McGonagall stared blankly at Severus, lost for words.

"We'll see ourselves out," said Kingsley, clapping a hand to Severus' shoulder and then to McGonagall's as he walked past.

No-one said anything until the door closed behind them.

Severus turned to face Hermione: both of his forearms were blank.

"How in sweet Calisto's bower did you manage that?" asked McGonagall. He shook his head, speechless.

Hermione put her hand to her chest in an attempt to slow her frenzied heart. She could feel her skin, shuddering underneath her touch. She stared at his arm. Her chest shook. It was a slow realisation. Gently, hesitantly, Hermione peeled back the collar of her pyjamas. There, on her chest—his wings beating insistently—was Severus' tattoo.

"But that's impossible," breathed McGonagall.

Hermione touched the phoenix gently, astounded by its warmth against her fingertips. Then she slowly extended her hand towards Severus. He stepped towards her, his own arm outstretched. The phoenix took off down her arm, wings wrapped around the surface as they beat up and down. As their fingers touched, he swept across the gap, circling twice around Severus' arm before coming to rest in his regular spot. Hermione couldn't speak at the wonder of it.

"You two," said Poppy, with a breathless laugh, "never cease to amaze me."

Severus looked as stunned as Hermione felt. He looked from his arm to her and back again. "Thank you," he said, once he was finally capable of words.

"I did nothing," replied Hermione. She shook her head in confusion.

They might have stood there much longer, wondering at the strangeness of it all, had McGonagall not pulled her brows together in a sudden frown. "What business do those morons have in Hogsmeade?" she asked. "You don't think that they're still planning for an ambush?"

"Surely not?" asked Poppy. "They would have warned you before you sent the students out there!"

"Where's Potter?" asked Severus, lifting his attention from his arm.

"At the Station?" asked McGonagall. "The town is full of students; with the Death Eaters captured there was no reason not to press ahead with the Hogsmeade visit."

"Get Jocelyn," said Hermione. "We need to destroy the wand immediately." She threw back the sheets and climbed out of the bed. Her wand, as she picked it up, felt like an old friend against her palm.

"Fawkes!" shouted Severus. He turned back to McGonagall. "Who is there with the students?"

"Everyone!" she replied. "Viktor, Bill, Hooch, Hagrid, Sprout—everyone!

Fawkes arrived with a bang, just as Hermione transfigured her pyjamas into regular clothes. She conjured her trainers, and sat on the bed to pull them on.

"Get Jocelyn! Quickly!" There was another bang, and then seconds later, another.

Jocelyn appeared, book in hand. "What the fuck?" she asked.

"Language!" snapped McGonagall and Poppy in unison.

"Sorry! Didn't realise you were here!"

"That's no excuse, young lady."

"We need to destroy the wand—now," said Severus.

"Can Hermione—?"

"Yes," said Hermione, cutting Jocelyn off before she could finish the question. Poppy had been running diagnostics, and though she didn't look happy, she didn't disagree.

"You come right back here once that wand is destroyed, you hear me?" Unexpectedly, she took hold of Hermione's shoulders and pulled her in for a quick hug. It left Hermione feeling choked up.

"Let's go," said Jocelyn, and they went.

Even with Jocelyn and Hermione jogging to keep up, it was Severus who reached the gargoyle first. "Maine coon," he commanded, and the gargoyle leapt aside. They ran up the moving stairs.

"You're too late," said Phineas as they hurried into McGonagall's office. He was clearly irritated: he sat with his legs crossed and his arms tightly folded over his chest. His foot was twitching rhythmically.

"What do you mean?" asked Hermione, glancing round at the other portraits to see that they were all looking remarkably put out.

"That fool boy took the wand a good hour ago." Phineas waved an eloquent hand in exasperation. "Wouldn't listen to a word of advice. Young men are all the same! What would a room full of distinguished professors know about magical artefacts?! Nothing!"

There was more, but Severus interrupted. "Albus? Is this true?"

"I'm afraid it is." Dumbledore took off his glasses and cleaned them sadly. "Harry had the idea that he was safer with the Wand of Destiny than without it. Nothing we could say would convince him otherwise."

"We need to get to Hogsmeade," said Hermione, casting her eyes around at the tall, narrow windows of the office. "Pity we can't just fly from here."

"Transform on the outside," said Severus. He pointed his wand at the nearest window and blew out the glass.

Jocelyn climbed up immediately onto the sill, using a conveniently placed chair as a foothold. Severus jumped, and then turned back to offer Hermione a hand. On the sill, she felt a little shaky, but she forced herself to think about the view in gryphon terms; it was much less terrifying.

"Hold my shoulders," she said to Jocelyn, and as soon as she felt Jocelyn's hands, she let herself fall forwards, stretching her wings effortless outwards to catch the breeze. Within moments, she was aloft, and Severus was beside her. They flew towards Hogsmeade, uncertain as to what they would find.

* * *

><p>AN: The plot thickens! Did you think that was even possible? I may have mentioned this once or twice before, but a review would, you know, help. It would encourage me, keep those juices flowing, etc. etc.


	35. Chapter 34: Casualties

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 34: Casualties

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Hello, my friends! I have missed you in the, er, four days? five? since I last posted a chapter. I have to confess that a while back I promised you a certain number of chapters (I think it was nine at the time), but the estimate has changed. I turned what was going to be four chapters into two LONG chapters-of which this is the first. So I can now say with complete confidence that there will be 36 chapters in total + an epilogue (this one is 34, despite the fact that FFnet keeps labeling it one higher because of the prologue). As ever, I'm pretty sure that an extra long chapter deserves multiple reviews ;p

Oh, and edited to add, because I forgot in the first ten seconds: this chapter is dedicated to hobbes12.

So, do you remember where we were? Severus, Jocelyn, and Hermione had just flown towards Hogsmeade, having discovered that Harry had made off with the Elder Wand.

* * *

><p>They heard the noise of battle before they got there: screams, shouts, the bang of curses, running feet. As they flew in over the village, it was crawling with Aurors. It took Severus a good thirty seconds to realise that they were, in fact, the enemy. They were firing at Order members and standing guard over terrified groups of Hogwarts students. There was even a squadron of broom-mounted Aurors, raining down curses on the virtually defenceless fighters below. He saw Hooch harrying their flank, Beater bat in hand; he watched her execute a perfect Sloth Grip roll as she dodged a nasty looking hex.<p>

Hermione dropped through the aerial ranks like a bomb, scattering the neat formation and causing several Aurors to loose control of their brooms in surprise.

As she spun to attack again, Severus spotted Harry. He was fighting alongside Ron and Neville—their back to the wall of Aberforth's pub and a veritable wave of Aurors in front of them. Hermione must have seen them, too, for she suddenly dived towards earth with an ear-splitting shriek.

The sheer animalistic noise of her fury drew the eyes of everyone on the ground. Most people faltered or broke off what they were doing to stare. Gryphons were rare, and a gryphon in Hogsmeade was unheard of. Into this puddle of surprise and confusion, Hermione dove. She landed in the small space between Harry and his attackers, most of whom stumbled backwards, desperate to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the magnificent, terrifying beast. One foolish man—a brave Gryffindor perhaps, or a Hufflepuff, committed to the instructions of his commanding officer—made a ill-judged last attempt on Harry's life.

"_Avada—_" he shouted. He never finished: Hermione seized him with her talons and then bit off his head. Blood spurted out from the severed neck. It pooled on the ground around her feet and splashed the faces of the poor man's companions.

Chaos ensued.

Some of the Aurors ran, others threw down their wands, dropping to their knees and begging for mercy. Severus concentrated on the small clumps of officers who stood firm. He wasn't quite ready to sacrifice the surveillance advantage of his bird's eye view, so he took up a position on the roof of the Hog's Head. Utilizing his superior height, he disabled as many Aurors as possible: tying them with unbreakable ropes, knocking them unconscious, or immobilising them with the Full Body Bind.

Hermione was rampant. Her outstretched wings protected Harry from most attacks, and her claws carved out a no-go zone in front of him. Evidently it hadn't occurred to the opposing side that the beast was an Animagus, because no-one attempted the Homorphus Charm. Jocelyn remained perched behind Hermione's wing joint disarming everyone within reach with Potter's perennial favourite, Expelliarmus.

Their arrival had changed the course of the battle, and it wasn't long before Severus was searching to find a target. He leapt down off the roof just as a group of students broke away from their handlers and swarmed towards Hermione. The students were whooping with relief, throwing their bodies into a fray that had evaporated. There was an absence of spellfire, no obvious enemies: not a single Auror remained standing.

Hermione transfigured back into her human form, stumbling away from the crowds. She spat, scrubbing at her mouth with her hand, and spat again. Severus went after her, his long strides quickly catching up with her unsteady progress. He reached out and took hold of her shoulder, turning her towards him. Her head was loose on her neck, her eyes unfocussed.

"Granger," he snapped, "pull yourself together."

"I . . . killed . . . a—"

He gave her a shake and leant down, pushing his face close to hers. "Do you think I haven't?" he asked.

Her eyes focussed. She stared at him. "Right," she said eventually. She nodded her head quickly, repeating the word a few times for good measure. "Right. Where's that bloody wand?" She pushed back the way they'd come.

Potter sat against the wall, Weasley and Longbottom still standing guard to each side. He looked as lost as Hermione had a moment previously.

"Harry," said Hermione.

Harry lifted his head and when he saw Hermione, he held out the wand without further comment. She took it, looking down at him for a long moment.

"Go help with the wounded," she said, and her voice was gentle. He nodded.

Hermione turned around. Jocelyn had materialised at Severus' side and she slipped her hand into his. Hermione walked towards them.

"Let's do this," said Hermione.

They found a broken fencepost, and Hermione balanced the wand on the top. As three points in a triangle, they took up positions around it. Severus looked at Hermione's determined expression; he looked at Jocelyn. The younger girl's mouth was set, but when he caught her eye he could see the nervousness behind the facade.

"Jocelyn," he said abruptly. He reached out and cupped the back of her neck, crouching down so that their faces were virtually level. "I love you," he said, his eyes locked on hers.

Her expression was pure Slytherin: surprise and confusion covered by equal parts disdain and disbelief, but she was still his Jocelyn—with a tendency towards emotional histrionics as overdeveloped as his own. As he was about to pull away, she threw her arms around him. Hanging like a limpet around his neck, her lips pressed to the shell of his ear, she whispered, "I love you, too."

He closed his arms around her and straightened, lifting her feet from the ground. Over her shoulder he met Hermione's gaze; she gave him a blazing smile. Without question, he knew that she was proud of him.

Severus returned Jocelyn to the ground. Before he let go of her entirely, she pressed her hands against his chest. "I choose you," she said.

It was an odd choice of words, but he knew exactly what she meant: _We can't choose our fathers_, he'd said to her once, but she chose him. And he chose her.

"I choose you, too," he said.

"And I choose you both," said Hermione.

Minerva's words were ringing in his ears. But he couldn't confess now, not now with the need to destroy the Elder Wand hanging over their heads. He couldn't afford for that smile to falter, couldn't run the risk that his confession would send her running. Instead, he let himself indulge in her regard, pulling that smile deep into his memory, etching the image on his heart.

"Let's do this," said Jocelyn, consciously or not echoing Hermione's earlier words. The three of them held hands. They took a moment to settle themselves, humming the starting notes back and forth over the wand. Then they began to sing.

From the first phrase, gentle and limpid in its articulation, the aching consonances wrought a magic all their own. The three lines of their music plaited together, rising up from the battered scenery of the village as if time itself hung suspended. The music transcribed a new space and a new time within which peace pooled and spread. He could feel their magic, in the notes they were making and in the spaces between them. He could feel the crowds around them, caught up in the listening and in the resonant world making of the musical field. He could see the Elder Wand, shaking as the air around it vibrated with love.

At the beginning, it trembled, then shook. By the midpoint of their song, the ends had begun to crumble. Severus watched as it disintegrated: the solid shape of it poured away, like sand through an hourglass. By the time that their last notes hung on the air, the wand was gone. Nothing was left but a plume of dust caught on the wind—spread, dispersed, irreparable.

Afterwards, the silence held for a long moment, until eventually, someone started to clap. Somebody else joined in, and soon the entire crowd of students, Order members, and random Hogsmeade citizens was applauding. Jocelyn blew out a noisy breath.

"Well," she said. "We did it."

"Jocelyn!" Chealsea Gladstone was the first to cross the space that separated the three of them from the crowd. "You were amazing!"

Gladstone's eyes glowed with the fervour of a hero's welcome, and Severus couldn't help but notice the way that Jocelyn responded. Her head titled up and her weight shifted. It was a pose he'd seen Hooch adopt on more than one occasion: a way of holding the hips that somehow implied that her whole body was thinking of sex, a way of running her hand through her hair that expressed both modesty and a detailed attention to the other person.

"Well," said Jocelyn, "someone had to do it." She shrugged, grinning. "We should go help those who are wounded," she suggested, reaching out to lay a hand on Gladstone's elbow.

"Yeah," agreed Gladstone enthusiastically.

As they stepped away, Jocelyn shot Severus and Hermione a look—surprise and delight rendered her young face even younger than normal.

"Why do I get the impression that girl might just have figured out her date for the ball?" asked Hermione.

Severus realised they were still holding hands.

"I should go talk to Harry," Hermione added, not waiting for an answer. For a second, her grip on his hand tightened, then she let go and walked away.

Severus found himself abandoned. The destruction of the wand had left him feeling hollow. He wanted to bury his head in the crook of Hermione's neck, wanted to press her up against a wall, wanted to kiss her until he forgot the horror of watching the Ministry's crack wandtroupe attack a passel of Hogwarts school children. He glanced around the milling crowd, sickened—suddenly—by the number of fallen bodies that lay in the square. While most were Aurors in various states of magical confinement, there were numerous others in student robes or civilian clothes.

He set to work, starting right there where he stood, turning over the nearest body and checking it for signs of life. He began to levitate the bodies into rows, and almost immediately, those around him started to help. They made a row of Aurors who seemed relatively uninjured, strengthening the charms that kept them captive and confiscating their wands. The injured, Severus sorted into various categories. A squad of Mediwitches and Mediwizards arrived from St. Mungo's, and he put those needing immediate medical attention into their care, marking the bodies with a flare of blue light. Many of the students had wounds that needed treatment but were perfectly capable of returning to Hogwarts under their own steam; he sent them on to Poppy, assigning escorts to those who looked too dazed or in need of help.

Krum came and worked alongside him for awhile. His face was bruised and battered; he reminded Severus of his photos after the World Cup.

"You're injured," said Severus.

"This is nothing." In his shock, Krum's accent was as thick as it had been on his first trip to the country. "Policemen!" he kept repeating, horrified. "Attacking children!"

"Hold still," said Severus. Pointing his wand at his colleague's face, he reset the broken nose and siphoned off the worst of the blood. He still looked terrible. "Do make sure you see Poppy once the students have been treated."

Soon Krum moved over to the opposite side of the square, supervising the treatment of a whole slew of captured Aurors. In his absence, Severus heard a relieved and familiar voice behind him calling his name. He turned in shock, long years of practice reducing a hard blaze of anger to a fierce glitter in his eyes.

"Lucius," he said. "I hadn't expected to see you here."

"Severus," repeated Lucius, striding forwards and grabbing hold of Severus' arm. "Where are they?"

"Who?" Severus already had his wand in his hand and he was itching to use it.

"My children, of course!" Lucius surveyed the scene. "I cannot believe that Kingsley allowed this to happen! Aurors attacking innocent citizens!"

"That's rich, Lucius—"

"I'm a changed man, Severus," said Lucius sharply, shaking his arm where he still held it.

Severus jerked his arm free. "Really?" he asked, his voice cold. "Bought any property recently?"

Lucius stilled, his eyes turning to scan Severus' face rather than the busy groups of students and Mediworkers who shifted around them. "They were our friends, once," he said quietly, "and they needed a place to stay. Slytherins look out for their own."

Severus stared at the man who was indeed once his friend. Either Lucius had just developed a heretofore unrealised talent at Occlumency, or the man knew nothing more.

"Unfortunately for you," he said, "Yaxley and Lestrange used that property as the headquarters for an another attempt at world domination. They kidnapped Granger."

Lucius reeled—quite literally his body spun at the news, his self-confidence was wiped from his face.

"Your name came up," added Severus.

"I—I didn't have anything to do with it. I swear it."

Severus shrugged. "Tell that to the Aurors—if there are any left."

"What am I going to do? Severus—" Lucius clutched at his arm. "You have to help me. I can't go back to Azkaban, I can't!"

Severus tried and failed to shake him free. "Then I suggest that you turn yourself in and request to be questioned under Veritaserum. I'd ask for Kaleisha Shacklebolt to be present at the examination—she won't cut you any slack, but she is moral enough to insist that the questions are limited to the investigation at hand."

Lucius was nodding. "I'll need a character witness," he said. He focussed on Severus again; his eyes were alight with a genuine terror. "You'll vouch for me? You _know_ I'm telling the truth." Lucius had vouched for Severus once, a lifetime ago. He didn't need to say, "You owe me," because the look in his eyes said it for him.

Severus fought with his own reluctance. _Slytherins_, he reminded himself, _look out for their own._

It was just that some Slytherins were more his own than others.

"I would," he said finally, hating himself, "on one condition."

There was a flash of relief in Lucius' eyes, then his shoulders slumped. "Jocelyn," he said quietly. He closed his eyes. "Full legal custody," he said, his voice heavy.

It wasn't enough. "I want to adopt her," said Severus.

Lucius looked at him, pained. "You would take her away?"

"If you go to Azkaban for terrorist activities," Severus pointed out, "I'll get full legal custody anyway." He let the words hang in the air.

"Fine." Lucius pulled his shoulders back and fought for some of his usual poise. "I'll have the lawyers draw up the documents immediately."

"You'd better hurry," said Severus coldly. "I wouldn't want them to arrest you first."

Lucius gave a stilted, formal bow. "No," he said, "you wouldn't, would you?" Without another glance, he Disapparated.

Severus let out his breath in a rush, and forced himself back to his task. It wasn't more than ten minutes later that he heard Jocelyn herself calling his name.

"Snape, Snape!"

There was panic in her voice, and he set off at a run.

She'd found Hooch. Her body was crushed under some fallen masonry; her eyes were closed. As Severus dropped to his knees beside her, he could hear Jocelyn pushing back the gathering crowd—the sound seemed to come from a long way away.

"No," he whispered, feeling for a pulse. She looked so old. The skin around her eyes was paper soft and criss-crossed with webs of lines. There—he felt her blood leap under his fingertips, and it was as if all the air and sound rushed back. "She's alive!" he exclaimed. "We have to get her to Poppy, immediately."

"I'll carry her," said Hermione. He hadn't noticed that she was there.

"Yes—no—she'll fall off." He was levitating the stones that held Hooch pinned to the ground; her legs were a mess. His heart in his mouth, Severus cast a stasis charm.

"I'll carry all of you, you can hold her on." He felt Hermione's hand on his arm, reassuring him. "We can't Apparate or Portkey her in this state—the centrifugal force might do more damage."

She was right.

"Stand back, you utter morons!" shouted Jocelyn.

Hermione transformed, causing those few observers who hadn't already backed up to stumble hurriedly out of the way. Jocelyn scrambled up immediately, holding out her arms and cradling Hooch's head as he levitated her up onto Hermione's broad back. Once Hooch was settled, Severus followed, taking his position just in front of Hermione's back legs; he could feel the hard ridges of muscle under her silky fur.

"Wait, here!" Chelsea Gladstone had pulled Hooch's broom and Beater bat from the wreckage and she held them up towards Jocelyn.

Hermione screeched, and held out her claw. Looking awed, Gladstone handed them to the gryphon, and then scuttled back as Hermione spread her wings. It was easier than Severus had anticipated to hold Hooch, even during take off. As Hermione lifted off over the pub and swung back in the direction of Hogwarts, he heard shouts from the crowd: "Gryffindor! Gryffindor!"

"You'd better have Minerva file your paperwork," he called to Hermione over the wind. "The secret of your Animagus form is well and truly out."

As the gryphon flew it was a short flight from the village to the Castle. Hermione landed right outside the main doors, and transformed as soon as Severus had levitated Hooch from her back. Hermione conjured a stretcher, and with Hooch quickly transferred, they ran with her up the stairs and through the halls. Jocelyn had sprinted ahead to get the doors, but they were already open: the Hospital Wing was full of students in various states of medical emergency. There wasn't a bed free.

Severus and Hermione lowered the stretcher to the floor just inside the door.

"Poppy!" he shouted, but Jocelyn had already found her.

He saw her face as she realised just who lay on the floor.

"No!" she ran, stumbling slightly as she rounded the end of the row of beds. "Ro! Ro!" Poppy dropped to the floor and seized the front of Hooch's robes. She shook her—violently. "Ro!" she sobbed. "You promised!"

As Poppy shook her, Hooch's head lolled back, exposing the whites of her eyes, and then snapped forwards. "Sweetheart," she said reproachfully, opening her golden eyes. "This is no way to treat a patient."

Severus himself was speechless. Poppy burst into tears, collapsing onto Hooch's chest and hiding her face; Hooch lifted a hand and cupped her head. She threaded her finger into one of Poppy's curls, tugging on it gently

"Shh, love," she murmured, "everything is going to be okay."

There was a spattering of applause and some excited exclamations from the crowd. One boy, speaking louder perhaps than he intended, remarked, "Funny to think of those two old women loving anyone."

"You think that's funny?" demanded Jocelyn. "Let's see how funny you think that is once I shove your wand up your arse!"

Still prone on the floor, Hooch met Severus' eye. "Have I told you that I like her?" she asked.

"Once or twice," he said. Severus felt giddy with relief. "How are your legs?"

Hooch screwed up her face. "Not so good," she admitted.

Poppy pulled herself up onto her knees. She struggled, visibly, to calm herself and she cast a series of diagnostic charms. Severus cast his eye around the room, spotting several St. Mungo's uniforms sprinkled in the throng.

"I'll go," said Hermione quietly from his side. "You get Hooch a bed and Poppy a cup of tea."

He nodded, swallowing his gratitude, and moved to bully his best friends into compliance. The bed was easy enough, but Poppy was insistent that she should treat Hooch herself.

"You're not treating anyone until your hands stop shaking," he said, conjuring her a chair and pushing on her shoulder until she sat down.

Hermione returned with three Mediwitches, who busied themselves taking readings, examining Hooch's legs, and listing a worryingly long assortment of potions on a sheet of parchment.

"Do you need me to make any of these?" he asked, peering over a lime-green coated shoulder to read from the list.

"No need," said the young woman brightly. "We've a Floo-line open to the hospital supplies." She turned, directing her wand upwards at the ceiling and conjuring a curtain, which clicked out, cutting off his view of the bed. "We'll let you know when she's ready for visitors," she added, not unkindly, before disappearing from sight.

"Is she going to be alright?" asked Jocelyn, sliding a hand into his.

"I hope so," he said.

* * *

><p>They filled the wait with hard work: basic healing charms, triage, organisation. Eventually the curtains around Hooch's bed were drawn back long enough for her Healers to emerge, and Severus pounced. He caught a glimpse of her, lying in bed with her eyes closed, a tent-like construction covering the lower half of her body.<p>

"How is she?" he demanded.

"It was touch and go for a while, there," said the young woman—less bright and more exhausted than she had been earlier in the day, "but I do think we've managed to salvage both her legs."

"Thank fuck for that," said Jocelyn.

"Language, Miss Malfoy!" said Poppy tiredly, emerging from between the curtains. She gave Severus a rather weepy looking smile. He held out his hands and she walked into his embrace.

It was a few moments before she spoke again. "I thought I'd lost her," she said, with a loud sniff.

"She's a strong old bat," he said.

Poppy gave a weak laugh, and pulled back, drying her eyes. She surveyed her domain—which, while much calmer and more organised than it had been several hours earlier, was still in relative disarray.

"Well," she said. "There's work to be done."

* * *

><p>In the end, it was the familiar discomfort of Minerva's bony fingers on his upper arm that pulled him from an exhausted daze of repetitious actions: bandaging, cleaning, tidying, sorting.<p>

"They were after you," she muttered. "You, Harry, the entire Order, ultimately Kingsley. If you and Hermione weren't so sympathetic these fools might have pulled off their military coup."

The emotions he'd felt earlier washed over him unexpectedly: humiliation, anger, shame at the persistent association between himself and the Death Eaters, horror that something so personal was about to be revealed.

"I still don't know how that happened," he said. He'd been so delighted, so full of hard, exultant fury at the way in which his body and hers had solved the problem.

"No-one really knows how sympathetic magic works," said Minerva distractedly, patting him on the arm reassuringly. "It's too unpredictable. Poppy thinks that the more two people work together, the more likely it is that their magic can or will work together—particularly at moments of extreme stress."

He wanted to press the point, wanted to keep talking about his tattoo, but he didn't.

"Go to bed," said Minerva unexpectedly. "That's what I came here to tell you. Kingsley and Kaleisha are working like crazy to try and deal with the consequences of this mess; they want to talk to you but I told them you won't be available until tomorrow."

Severus stared at her for a long moment. Bed. Sleep. The idea sounded amazing. He would spend the night here, of course, watching over Hermione, but he should definitely eat, shower. He nodded to Minerva and then slipped out of the Hospital Wing.

He took a familiar short cut down a normally deserted corridor. When a shadowy figure stirred at his approach, his raw nerves threw him into overdrive. In short order Severus stood with his wand pressed against Potter's forehead—the idiot man-child hadn't even moved.

"I thought," Potter said, looking up at Severus from a tearstained face, "I honestly thought that they were on our side."

Severus lowered his wand. Over that long, dreadful day he'd stockpiled about half a hundred insults with which to berate Potter for his stupidity. In that moment he let them all drop—unspoken—into oblivion. "Our side?" he asked instead, inflecting his voice to point out the irony of the first person plural. Before Potter could offer a nauseating definition of what "our side" actually stood for, Severus went on: "Most people have their own agenda, Potter."

"Perhaps I should have been sorted into Slytherin, I just might have learnt something." Potter was seated on a low bench and he dropped his head into his hands.

Severus sighed. He thought about his rooms and his shower, then he sat down next to Potter. The exhaustion of the day rolled over him, and he tipped back his head to lean against the wall.

"Honestly—if I can't trust the Aurory, who am I supposed to trust?"

"Nobody?" responded Severus, not entirely joking. "Few people can resist the lure of an unbeatable wand."

"Not even me," said Potter quietly. "I don't know how Dumbledore managed to use it for so long without succumbing."

Severus swivelled his head to look at the boy. "Dumbledore did succumb—he used it for years."

"Yes! But he didn't go insane, did he?"

"Did you?"

Potter let out a heavy breath. "This whole year," he said, "I've known it was there, waiting for me. Oh, Tricklebank was persuasive, I'll give him that, but I was a little too easy to convince. There's a sick kind of logic: if people are going to attack me to get the unbeatable wand, then at least I'll be safer if I'm using the wand—it's unbeatable, you see." He ran his hands through his hair. "And today," he went on, "when we were attacked, I could feel its response. The wand was so . . . _happy_ to be the centre of such destruction. It wanted to participate, to take control. I was so terrified that it would kill everybody in sight—not even just the Aurors, but everybody, friend or foe. I came so close."

Like always, Severus found his conversation with Potter shadowed by memories of Lily. This was the child he'd insisted she have and insisted that she look after. This was the child she'd died to protect. It didn't make him angry the way it once had.

He searched for the right words. "Dumbledore knew the lure of power, Potter, and for all of his flaws, he believed in second chances."

For a long time, neither of them spoke. "Snape," said Potter, breaking the silence, "what am I going to do with my life?"

The question took him by surprise. He sneered, "Are you asking me for career advice?"

Potter gave a weak laugh. "Yeah, I guess I am."

As if he knew. He turned the question back on the boy: "What do _you_ want to do with your life, Potter?"

Potter stared down at his hands, rubbing his thumbs against each other as he considered the question. "I want to live in a peaceful, happy, law-abiding society. I want a family, and kids, and a job that gives me something relevant to do. I want to make the world a better place for the next generation."

Saccharine sweet honesty. Potter wasn't looking, so he didn't notice Severus roll his eyes.

"Sounds like you're already in the right job, Potter." Given the day's debacle, there was going to be a severe leadership vacuum. He might even make Head Auror by the end of the week.

"What do you mean? The Aurory?"

"You want a nine-to-five job saving the world." Severus shrugged.

"But they just attacked a village full of school children!"

Severus was tired; he stood up. "I guess it will be up to you to ensure it doesn't happen again."

"Huh." Potter's eyes focussed. "You're leaving?"

_No. I thought we could go out for a drink together_. Severus kept the worst of his sarcasm to himself. "Unless there are any other pressing life questions I can assist you with?" he asked, one eyebrow raised.

"I guess not," said Potter, screwing up his face. "Apart from having just led pretty much everyone I know into a violent ambush, the question of what to do with the rest of my life, and the fact that Ron and Hermione keep telling me that they're better off as friends, my whole life is going swimmingly. Oh, yeah, and I've exams on Monday."

Severus blinked. _Better off as—_

He gave Potter a mocking half bow, and continued on towards his room.

_Better off as friends,_ he thought,_ better off as friends, better off as friends . . ._

* * *

><p>Exam week passed without any meaningful contact between Severus and Hermione. After weeks and months of her near constant presence in life, he missed her like an ache. He spent 99% of his time thinking about her and several evenings re-brewing the contraceptive potion—though his thoughts skittered away from any rationalisation of what he might do with it or how he might give it to her without giving offense.<p>

Through it all, Potter's words ran like a refrain.

The very idea of Hermione unattached made him jittery. There was no reason in the world why Hermione-without-Ron should lead to Hermione-interested-in-Severus. None, whatsoever. And yet though highly improbable, it had suddenly become possible: and that, for the wild fantastic fantasies of his imagination, was sufficient.

* * *

><p>In other news, Lucius made good on his word. The official communication came courtesy of the Malfoy lawyers, arriving by owl post on Wednesday morning. Directly after breakfast Severus called Jocelyn out of the common room and into his office.<p>

"Hey," she said, with a smile, slipping into the visitor's chair.

Severus felt uncomfortably breathless. He passed her the heavy envelope without comment and gestured for her to read the contents. Her expression turned serious as she unfolded the parchment sheets, noticing the letterhead, her own name—no doubt—leaping out from the text to attract the eye.

He watched her frown down at the dense legalese. Watched her eyes pause, reread a passage, leap forwards to the next page. Abruptly, she put the papers in her lap; her hands were shaking.

"This," she said, then stopped. She took a deep breath. "You're going to . . . to adopt me?"

His own throat was dry. "If you'll have me," he managed.

She looked back down at the sheets of parchment in her lap, beginning to fumble through them with clumsy fingers. "Where do I sign?" she asked urgently. "Where?"

Severus laughed, although it sounded suspiciously like a sob. "We need a witness," he said. "And a legal representative, possibly Kaleisha—"

"Quickly!" said Jocelyn, standing in a rush. "Before Lucius changes his mind!"

Severus glanced at his watch. "She's probably in the staff room."

"Let's go," said Jocelyn. She was already at the door.

He followed her, but his long strides were too slow by her standards. She grabbed him by the hand and started to run. It was ridiculous, and undignified, and yet somehow right to barrel towards parenthood at full tilt. He ran with her, the wind of their passage catching at his robes and hair; they rushed up through the dungeons, up the stairs to the ground floor and then along the corridor, where they screeched to a halt before the gargoyle guards. There Severus ran a hand down his chest, striving, rather pointlessly for some scrap of dignity. Still holding Jocelyn's hand tightly in his, he stepped into the room.

Most of the faculty were in attendance. He spotted Kaleisha immediately, her head tilted to catch whatever droll comment Filius had just imparted. Heedless of the sight they made, he crossed the room towards her, dragging Jocelyn by his side.

"Excuse me, Professor," said Jocelyn. She was bouncing from one foot to the other.

"How can I help you?" asked Kaleisha, her eyes flickering from Jocelyn to Severus to the place where their hands met.

Jocelyn thrust the paperwork at her rather gracelessly; it took only seconds for Kaleisha to realise the import of the documents at hand. A huge smile split her face as she perused the first page. She flipped quickly through the packet, drawing her wand to verify the signatures and seals on the third page and nodding happily when the official chimes rang out. "You need to chose a witness," she said, lifting her head.

Severus glanced around the room. Of the Hogwarts faculty, Hooch would have been his first choice, but she was still in the Hospital Wing under Poppy's hawk-like care. Minerva was there, though, and as he met her eye in mute inquiry, she rose immediately to her feet. She took hold of his elbow as she came up beside him, her fingers digging in uncomfortably. Her lips were pursed, but there was a glint of moisture in her eyes.

"I would be honoured," she said, her brogue thickened with emotion.

Severus opened his mouth to reply only to find himself incapable of speech. He didn't really need to say anything, though, and just for a second, Minerva rested her head on his shoulder.

"Now, Jocelyn," said Kaleisha, who was filling out the relevant information on the forms, "do you wish to change your name?"

"I—" Jocelyn swallowed and glanced up at Severus, a question in her eyes.

"You have several choices, actually: you could keep the Malfoy name, return to your original name, which would be,"—here Kaleisha flipped back a page to read from Jocelyn's official history—"Smith, change it to Snape, or even assume some hyphenated combination." Kaleisha smiled encouragingly.

Severus squeezed Jocelyn's hand. Her choice.

"Snape," she said decisively. "Jocelyn Snape."

He thought his heart might burst. As Kaleisha summarised for Jocelyn the legal ramifications of the procedure, he let the words wash over and around him. Tears stung his eyes, and he fought to blink them back before anyone could notice. Jocelyn had a tight grip on his fingers and she was nodding repeatedly at Kaleisha.

". . . once you take this wandoath, your relationship to Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy will be completely and utterly dissolved. They will have no claim on you or responsibilities towards you, and you will have no claim on them—this includes all inheritances, real and monetary, with the exception of direct bequests. Is this clear?"

"Yes," said Jocelyn.

"Very well," said Kaleisha, "please draw your wands. For completeness, Jocelyn, I would ask that you first disown your biological father."

"With pleasure," said Jocelyn in a hard voice. She held out her wand, point down like a dagger. "Lucius Abraxas Malfoy is no father of mine," she said. "Lucius Abraxas Malfoy is no father of mine." She took a deep breath. "Lucius Abraxas Malfoy is no father of mine."

There was a flash of red light as she finished. "Yeah!" exclaimed Bill Weasley, prompting laughter from several others.

"Excellent," commented Kaleisha, signing the paper in front of her and affixing an official seal with the tip of her wand. "It's the wandoaths that count," she said conversationally to Jocelyn. "The paperwork just maintains the records and serves to verify that no-one was coerced."

_Well, no-one but Lucius_. Severus, though, felt no guilt.

"Right," Kaleisha said brightly, turning to the next page in the packet. "Please put your wands together."

Severus held his wand out, laying it alongside Jocelyn's. They both held them with their wandhands, hers gripping just below his own.

Kaleisha fed them the words as they took the oath of adoption.

"I, Severus Tobias Snape, hereby take Jocelyn Claire Snape to be my lawful child. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, by blood and by magic; with all of the rights and responsibilities that the familial bond entails, so long as we both shall live."

As he spoke, gold bands of light emerged from his wand, circling their joined hands and arcing out to trace curves around them both.

"I, Jocelyn Claire Snape, hereby take Severus Tobias Snape to be my lawful father. To have and to hold, in sickness and in health, by blood and by magic; with all of the rights and responsibilities that the familial bond entails, so long as we both shall live."

Silver light sprang from Jocelyn's wand, joining his in the dance around their bodies.

"Who witnesses this union?" called Kaleisha.

"I do!" replied Minerva in a clear voice.

"Aye, me, too," shouted Hagrid unexpectedly.

"And I!" added Filius, leaping to his feet.

The entire room erupted with similar sentiments. Severus looked around in astonishment as his colleagues raised their voices in a chorus of support.

Kaleisha grinned like the Cheshire cat. "By the power vested in me by the British Ministry of Magic, I declare this adoption fully validated under the law. Congratulations!"

As the lights of the bonding faded, Severus and Jocelyn were buffeted by well wishers. Minerva hugged him, kissing his cheek and whispering, "Congratulations, my dear boy," into his ear; Hagrid beat him on the back rather painfully; and countless others shook his hand with evident enthusiasm. Eventually, the hubbub died down, and Severus found himself looking down into Jocelyn's face. She pulled a self-deprecating expression and then punched him lightly in the arm.

"Dad," she said, aiming for a light-hearted tone that fell apart when her voice cracked.

"Daughter," he said and reached out his hand to the back of her neck. He pulled her against his chest, and her hands snaked around his waist. She squeezed him tightly.

The moment was broken by Minerva, who clapped her hands for attention. "I hate to spoil the party, my friends," she announced to the room at large, "but there are only ten minutes until the morning exam session is due to start."

A flurry of activity and laughter greeted her words.

"Shit," said Jocelyn. "Gotta go."

"Language, Miss—" Minerva pulled herself up. "Miss Snape," she said. "Language, Miss Snape!" The wagging finger and pursed lips did nothing to hide the dimple.

At the name, Jocelyn stood visibly taller. "I'll try," she promised Minerva.

Severus walked with her to the door, where they parted ways. Ten metres down the corridor she glanced back to where he still stood, watching.

"Bye, dad!" she called, grinning like a loon. "Love you!"

* * *

><p>Even with the Ministry in chaos, Kingsley pressed ahead with the ball; he seemed to think that it would be an admission of failure to cancel. Severus arrived relatively early. In truth, he'd reached the point where he could no longer sit in his rooms, dressed in his finery and wondering whether or not Hermione was dancing with Ron. The party was split over two levels, with a dance floor down below, and a wide mezzanine stretching around the perimeter that afforded a good view of proceedings. Severus was skulking about, looking for an unobtrusive place to spy on everyone, when he spotted Hooch—leaning against the balcony railing, her walking stick hooked over one arm.<p>

"You look nice," she said, eyeing his dress robes curiously as he came up to lean on the rail beside her.

He scowled at her, trying not to feel self-conscious. "Wouldn't you be better off in a chair?"

"Quit fussing. I've one wife already and I don't need another." Hooch took a swig from a bone-coloured hip flask and offered him a mouthful.

"You're incorrigible," he said, taking the offered beverage and helping himself to a taste.

"I saw Kingsley a moment ago," she said. "Apparently the Dolens membrum was so painful that Rabastan Lestrange tore off his own dick with his bare hands."

Severus thinned his lips into a bland expression of surprise. "Sounds uncomfortable," he said.

"I imagine so. The prison guards were so used to his screaming, that they didn't bother to check on him until after he died from blood loss."

"As he lived, so shall he die." Severus felt almost nothing at the news: no guilt, no relief. On the far side of the dance floor he spotted Potter and Ginevra Weasley, spinning slowly in tight circles. Several photographers were taking photos—though why they needed quite so many shots of precisely the same imaged baffled him. Just behind them, Ron stood talking to Neville; Hermione was nowhere in sight.

"Indeed," said Hooch, reclaiming her flask. Down below them, Draco wandered by, Astoria Greengrass hanging on his arm. "Where's your daughter?" she asked.

"As I understand it, she's helping Chelsea Gladstone with her hair."

"Fascinating," drawled Hooch. "Can't say she strikes me as much of a hair stylist."

"No." Severus permitted himself a small quirk of his lips. "But right now I think she'd find even the lint from Gladstone's bellybutton fascinating."

Hooch laughed out loud.

"I did warn Gladstone that I took a dim view of an assault on my daughter's virtue."

"You didn't?" Hooch chuckled. "Oh, but to be a fly on that wall." She turned to him with a grin. "I hesitate to mention it, daddy dearest, but your daughter doesn't strike me as particularly virtuous."

"Alas, no," he said, feigning a mournful expression. "But she's also fourteen. I wasn't about to give her my blessing to completely unfettered sexual activity."

"So fettered is okay?"

He hid an outraged laugh behind a glare. "Need I remind you that this is my daughter you're talking about? You can keep your dirty comments to yourself."

"There she is," said Hooch unexpectedly, jerking her head at the dance floor.

Given the conversation, Severus had assumed that she meant Jocelyn, and the sight of Hermione Granger hit him like a slap. Hermione was dressed in a coppery gold fabric, the same colour as her feathers in Animagus form. Her hair—which he'd more than half assumed would be smooth and sleek as it often was at such functions—had been artfully pinned into a riot of curls. She looked amazing, and her entrance caused something of a stir.

"Gryffindor!" shouted someone, and the call was taken up by several others. Many of the guests began to clap.

Hermione smiled politely at those around her, and scanned the room furiously. Her brow cleared when she spotted Ron, who had stepped in her direction, his hand raised to catch her attention. Hermione began to walk towards him, and then, as the entire attention of the room honed in on her, to hurry—nearly running. Ron held his arms wide and she threw herself into them; he lifted her, spinning her off the floor into a twirl as the flashbulbs around them went into overdrive.

Severus watched the interaction stony faced. He closed off his heart behind large walls, as Potter's words echoed—mockingly—inside his head. _Better off as friends, better off as friends_—well, clearly they'd changed their minds. Down below him, Hermione Granger and Ronald Weasley were dancing an outrageous, celebratory dance, their faces alight with joy.

"You know, Snape," said Hooch from his side. Her voice seemed to come from a long way off, and Severus forced himself to pay attention. "I'd always pegged you as more of a fighter."

He turned to look at her, blinking to bring her into focus. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said.

"Right," she said, and her face was angry even though her voice was even. "What would a ninety-eight-year-old lesbian know about secret love?"

He turned his face away, staring out over the balcony into nothing. She didn't understand.

Hooch pushed herself away from the railing, tucking her flask back into a pocket and reclaiming her walking stick. She jabbed him in the chest with the handle. "You don't get to love someone," she said, "if you're not prepared to fight for it."

She limped off, slowly, leaving him with no-one to talk to, and nothing to look at save the vision of Hermione being bent dramatically backwards over Ron Weasley's arm.

Almost immediately, Hooch's place at his side was filled by an even more unwelcome companion: Rita Skeeter placed her painted talons on his arm and cooed a greeting.

"Any comments on young love?" she asked, gesturing at the dance floor with her free hand, her ubiquitous Qwik-notes quill hovering in the air beside her.

"Rot in hell," he snarled, pulling out of her grip and stalking away to sulk in peace.

* * *

><p>AN: You guys, we are almost, almost there! Amazing, right? It's only been 84 chapters and 400,000 words (no kidding about that last bit, with this chapter that's pretty much where we're at)! So, tell me what you think! I'm dying to know . . .

Oh, and also, some people have asked what I am planning to write next. Frankly, I don't really know. I do have a few chapters of an aborted SSHG exchange fic on my harddrive that the completionist in me would like to finish. It wouldn't be more than ten chapters, though, in total, so not a mammoth story like this one. One day, of course, like pretty much everyone in the whole world, I'd like to write an Ofic. If it ever happens, I'm sure you'll recognise it: there'll be strong, smart female characters, a complicated plot, a focus on trying to see things from a different perspective, big questions around the issue of parenthood, and about 1,000,000 gay characters in the supporting cast. ;p

So, review me up, and I'll get cracking on the last two chapters + epilogue, do we have a deal? (lots happened in this chapter, still a few things to come!)


	36. Chapter 35: The Last Dance

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 35: The Last Dance

DISCLAIMER : The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Oh, ye of little faith! How many of you saw fit to beat me around the heart this week? Too many of you. That's alright, I understand, I really do. In my panic that I wouldn't be able to solve the trilogy to everybody's (or anybody's really) satisfaction, I hauled off and did some reading. I read the first (and so far only) two books in Leigh Bardugo's Grisha trilogy. Foolishly, I purchased the first one, but not the second—trying to be frugal, you understand, for it was possible that I wouldn't have liked it and then not wanted to read the second, so found myself at ten pm on Sunday evening with only twenty pages left to the end of the first book and the terrible, TERRIBLE conviction that a particular plot point was not going to be resolved. I may even have shouted "you're going to fuck this up completely!" at the book, though, to be fair, she did resolve the thing I was worried about and then I later decided that the book might have been stronger if she hadn't. Worst of all, when I went to my local crack—oops, of course I mean **book**store the next day to buy book two they didn't have it and I had to order it and then I didn't get it until Friday, which really didn't seem fair. Particularly since I could have gone to the big chain store and got it that very hour, but I couldn't bring myself to do that. Point being, that I know what it's like to get near the end and feel anxious. (As a side note, the ending to book two was kind of fabulous). Just believe me that I'm doing my best! Besides, while I did make a promise of some sort to fix the holes in the original Harry Potter stories, I made no promises about fixing the holes in my own stories! That's up to you, my friends ;p

What else? Oh, yes, well I really am not going to go into more detail about what on Earth Lucius was thinking. You'll just have to take it on faith that Yaxley and co kept mum about their plans, no-doubt on the assumption that the man had to a certain degree changed, but that their friendship stretched far enough to include a hide out. They were, after all, wanted men, and he had, after all, managed to avoid Azkaban, and they could have threatened to incriminate him if captured. That's it, folks, on with the story! Penultimate chapter, here we come!

* * *

><p>Even with the extra influx of patients who had been wounded at Hogsmeade, Poppy insisted that Hermione spend another night in the Hospital Wing. It had meant that she only barely had a chance to talk with Harry and Ron—Hermione had refrained from asking, "What the hell happened to Total Fucking Honesty, Ronald?", which had to count as a win, and she tried to swallow their apologies with good grace. Harry looked too fragile for the lecture she was longing to deliver.<p>

"I know that it sounds ridiculous in retrospect, but we just didn't want to worry you," said Harry.

"You wouldn't have been allowed to come," said Ron reasonably. "You were magically exhausted."

_I was, and then I killed somone._

"I just don't understand why you didn't tell Snape or McGonagall," said Hermione.

"Because nothing was supposed to happen!" explained Ron.

Harry pushed up his glasses to rub a hand across his eyes. "It sounded so reasonable when Tricklebank suggested it," he despaired.

"Yeah," agreed Ron, nodding. "After all, we already had the Death Eaters in custody. The way Tricklebank put it our presence was just a roll of the dice, an opportunity to check whether there were any others lurking for a chance at the wand."

"It never, _never_ occurred to us that, that . . ."

Ron put a hand on Harry's shoulder as he broke off. "No-one could have known that the Aurors were trying to wipe out the Order, Hermione."

Hermione stared down at her hands and tried to think forgiving thoughts. Her boys were, to an extent, right. She had been worried all year that Harry was at risk, she had hated the idea of a Death Eater ambush, but she'd never imagined that the ambush was aimed at Harry and the Order. The idea was preposterous.

It was no co-incidence, she realised, that the Aurory had attempted to arrest Severus at precisely the moment his attention was needed elsewhere. And if it wasn't for the miraculous disappearance of his tattoo, they would have succeeded, too.

"How did they know about Snape's tattoo?" she asked, seizing on the only question she could think of that didn't sound particularly aggressive.

Ron groaned. "Totally and utterly my fault," he declared, both hands raised to as if to ward off a blow. "Coxton was banging on about how he just knew Snape still had a Dark Mark, and eventually I told him to shut it, and that all he had was a regular Muggle tattoo." He pulled an exaggeratedly apologetic face. "Wish I'd seen him, though," he added, "when the tattoo disappeared."

Hermione thought about how carefully and cleverly the boys had been cut off from their friends and supporters and kept down at the Station, where the twisted logic of this Tricklebank character came to seem more and more apt. She thought about Kingsley, who surely hadn't known about this; she wondered what other factions at the Ministry had been involved, and to what extend Kingsley himself had been a target of the whole mess.

She was about to say something further when the doors of the Hospital Wing swung open to reveal Rita Skeeter, resplendent in puce velvet.

"Steel yourselves," Hermione muttered.

"Bloody hell," swore Ron.

Skeeter, rather unsurprisingly, had all manner of questions for Hermione about her Animagus transformation. Hermione managed to smile sweetly, if insincerely, and stuck to the story she'd hammered out with McGonagall: they'd been working on the transformation for a long time now, without measurable success, and only when she'd seen the students in danger had she transformed—without a second thought.

"Perhaps you should work on the transformation," Hermione concluded, throwing Skeeter a bone, "I imagine that you'd be good at it." Maybe she could trade silence about her own transformation timeline for silence about Skeeter's.

Skeeter narrowed her eyes, but responded in kind: "Perhaps, I always was rather good at Transfiguration." Before Skeeter left, Hermione tried to pump her for any information about the planning behind the Hogsmeade attack, but she kept mum. "I don't owe you anything, Hermione Gryffindor," she said.

"Gryffindor?" asked Ron, surprised. "You're going to change her name?"

"Not I," said Skeeter, tucking her Qwik-Notes Quill away into a poison green handbag. "But everyone else will." With a fake smile and an irritating wave of her long, painted fingernails, she finally left.

Poppy chose that moment to come and insist that Hermione go to sleep, and reluctantly, the boys complied.

It took Hermione a goodly time to fall asleep. First, Severus wasn't sitting there beside her, as he typically did, and she couldn't help missing him or chastising herself for wanting him there in the first place—no doubt he had a ridiculous number of Slytherin students to look care for in the aftermath of the day. Second, the Hospital Wing itself was teeming with restrained activity, and the continuous footsteps and low conversations kept intruding into her rest.

Once she did finally sleep, she was troubled by dreams. Around three a.m., she jerked herself awake, her heart hammering, her body slick with sweat. It took a few minutes for the shadows around her to shift into the familiar shapes of the hospital beds and to recognise the person seated beside her.

McGonagall had lowered her copy of _Transfiguration Today_ and was looking at Hermione over her glasses.

"Severus wanted to be here," she said, "but I insisted that he rest."

Hermione nodded. She swallowed, groping for the glass of water on her bedside table. McGonagall waved her wand to shift her chair closer to the bed and to cast up a sound barrier so that their conversation would not wake those around them.

"By the way, I took the liberty of registering your Animagus form with the Ministry."

Hermione cleared her throat. She wanted to say thank you, but instead she said, "I killed a man."

"So I heard," said McGonagall, her face calm. She added, "How does that make you feel?"

Her tone and her expression were so reminiscent of Hermione's mother, Susan, that Hermione had to blink back tears. In vain she searched for an adjective that would describe how she felt.

"At the time," she said, "I didn't think at all, beyond the need to protect Harry. But . . . but . . ."

McGonagall held up a gnarled finger. "If Albus were here he would tell you to hold onto that 'but', Hermione. He would say that there resides your own humanity and that of Harry's attacker."

Hermione hadn't been particularly close to Dumbledore and she'd never really forgiven him for abandoning Harry to the Dursleys or for his treatment of Severus. She found herself unmoved by his supposed advice. "What would you say?" she asked. She sounded belligerent and she flushed, ashamed of herself.

"Me, I would ask you a question," said Minerva. Urged onward by Hermione's stare, she asked it: "In that long year you spent on the run, if you'd had to kill someone to keep Harry safe, would you?"

Hermione knew the answer to that question without a second's reflection, but she closed her eyes and pretended to think. Her response felt like a shard of metal in her chest. "Yes," she said finally.

"If you'd had to kill someone to stop Voldemort from taking over the country, would you?"

"Yes," she whispered.

"Hermione," said McGonagall gently, "you're still the same person you were yesterday."

It helped to think about it that way, it really did. The metallic shard hadn't disappeared, but it seemed less likely to puncture a lung.

"It's an important lesson, too, to know how easy it is to do. Much as I might wish that were the last and only time you will need to fight, Hermione, the reality is sadly adverse. And don't forget that Avada Kedavra will kill you just as dead in your Animagus form as it will as a human; in some cases, you will need to fight to the death."

"But still," said Hermione.

"Yes," agreed McGonagall, "but still." She adjusted her glasses. "It is very possible that if you'd had more experience fighting transformed, you wouldn't have killed him. Though he was performing an Unforgivable at the time, he was still a human being—with friends and family members and a daily routine."

McGonagall's words hurt, but it was also a relief to have them said aloud. Harry and Ron, and even Rita Skeeter, had brushed over the event.

"Professor?" she asked. "Have you ever killed anyone?"

"Yes." McGonagall nodded. "Two women in the first Voldemort War and at least one man in the second. I also cast a number of protective wards around the school in the lead up to the Final Battle that were capable of taking several lives; I do not know how many were injured at my hand."

"But you're still the same person you were before?"

"Yes. If a little older."

"Thanks for talking to me about it."

McGonagall reached out and took hold of Hermione's near hand.

"Child," she said, and somehow, the word held no hint of patronising overtones, "I need to ask you another question, and I hope that you will forgive my impertinence in advance."

Hermione braced herself, but it wasn't the question she was anticipating.

"Did Rabastan Lestrange rape you?""

"I—" Hermione squeezed her teacher's hand. "No. He threatened it, and he . . . he raped another young woman, but he didn't rape me."

"Given the pain he was in, I'd say he raped several." McGonagall shook her head, her mouth was turned sharply down at the corners.

Hermione's confusion must have been evident upon her face, for when McGonagall looked up and caught her eye, she explained herself.

"The Dolens membrum is the traditional Wizarding punishment for rape," she said. "Indeed," she went on, "in many communities it was both punishment and trial—for the charm causes pain to the member in direct relationship to the pain that the member has caused."

"I didn't know that," said Hermione quietly. She turned the knowledge over in her head: it was exactly the kind of thing Severus would know. She felt a sudden fierce gladness: she was glad that Lestrange was being punished for his crime (or crimes)—in a direct, undeniable way that was effective even in spite of his insanity—and she was glad to recognise the method behind Severus' actions. She herself would have leapt at the possibility of vigilante violence against Lestrange, and she hadn't judged Severus for taking the opportunity when he had it—despite the technical illegality of his actions. But knowing the purpose and effect of the spell he'd chosen made her love him all the more. She wanted to hug him, to squeeze him tight in thanks.

"They only stopped using the spell once the Dementors were installed at Azkaban," said Minerva, looking thoughtfully into the distance. "Perhaps there's an argument for its return now that the Dementors are gone once again."

"Professor," said Hermione. "Do you think I could borrow Dumbledore's Pensieve once I'm permitted to leave the Hospital Wing?"

"Of course, dear. I'll put it out for you in my office. Just come and get it."

It wasn't until midday that Hermione was allowed to escape. She'd seen Harry briefly in the morning, but he was too concerned with the Auror situation to stay long: his big news was that a small group of Aurors who had refused to participate in the ambush had been discovered in the Station lock up. While technically they had refused to follow orders and thus were due punishment for insubordination, their very existence was a relief. Of the many others, all of whom were now under arrest, it was proving difficult to separate out those who had planned the exercise from those who had merely done as they were told—whether they agreed with the sentiments behind it or not.

Having collected the Pensieve, Hermione stopped by the library, but though the rooms were crowded with students cramming for the exams, there was no sign of the young woman for whom she was looking. Hermione left quickly, before the whispers could get to her: she'd read the papers that morning and could only hope that the excitement about the _gryphon d'or_ would fade as quickly as it had blossomed.

Hermione found Lavender in the common room. The other girl stood up at her arrival.

"We thought you'd be looking for us," said Parvati. Lavender was wiping her hands awkwardly on her thighs.

"Oh." Hermione was taken aback.

"We're really sorry, Hermione, really," said Lavender. Lavender was telling the truth—that much Hermione could ascertain from Legilimency—but she had no idea what Lavender was talking about.

"Marietta's been a friend of my family as long as I can remember!" explained Parvati, wringing her hands. "It didn't occur to us that there was anything in the letters except schoolgirl gossip."

_Marietta's pen-pals_, remembered Hermione as the Knut dropped. "Don't worry about it," she said quickly, meaning it. "No-one could have known that Marietta was working with the Death Eaters, no-one." Another idea occurred to her. "Did you ever see her outside of school?" she asked, trying to sound casual and non-judgemental.

"Well, we did! She often comes when we go out—she's just one of the group."

Hermione didn't really need to ask whether Marietta had been there at New Years', by the sound of things she must have known the details whether she was actually present or not.

"Honestly," she said, "please don't worry about it." She turned her gaze on Lavender. "Lavender," she said, hiking the Pensieve up higher on her hip, "I wondered if I could have a word with you. In private."

"With me?" asked Lavender. She swallowed, then pushed her hair back from her face. "Shall we go up to the dorm?"

Hermione nodded. She knew that Lavender knew what they were about to talk about.

"You want me to come?" asked Parvati solicitously.

"No," said Lavender. "Hang out here, I'll come get you if I need." She shot a smile at her friend, but it died as she turned back towards Hermione. She tilted her head towards the staircase, and Hermione led the way up to their room.

Once inside she placed the Pensieve carefully on her dresser and extracted the bottle of memories from her pocket. Lavender was staring at it apprehensively.

"Let me guess," she said. "One of Marietta's friends paid me a visit on New Year's?"

"Yes," acknowledged Hermione. She felt terrible.

Lavender stuck out her lower jaw. "Who was it?" she asked.

"Rabastan Lestrange."

"Okay." Lavender nodded. She was still looking at the phial of memories. "Is that . . . ?"

Hermione nodded. "I should start at the beginning," she said. She gestured at the bed. "Sit down?" she asked.

Lavender sighed, and sat down. Hermione sat on the bed opposite. She took a deep breath. "In order to make The Potion," she began, "I had to steal one of the ingredients." She paused. "Snape caught me."

Lavender's eyes flew to her face.

"At first he was very angry, but in the end he agreed to make The Potion for me, using my Arithmantic equations."

"He _what_?"

Remembering the situation Hermione couldn't believe that she hadn't realised right then and there how much he cared about her: Snape helped her brew a dangerous and borderline illegal potion. She wasn't surprised that Lavender was surprised. "Well . . ." Hermione searched for a way to explain what had happened. "He and I have a history," she said finally. "I never told him who it was for," she added, "and he never asked."

Lavender blinked at her. "Okay," she said slowly.

"Anyway," said Hermione, pushing onwards with the story, "from things that Lestrange and Yaxley said during my, my um, captivity, it became clear that Lestrange had assaulted you." She studied Lavender's face for some sign of how she was taking the news: her face was hard. "I got the impression that the others didn't know anything about it, but I could be wrong."

"Wait, you think Marietta didn't know?"

Hermione lifted her hands in uncertainty. "Maybe?" Lavender tilted her head back to stare up at the canopy. "Maybe she told them your movements but didn't realise what they would do with the information?"

She waited to see if Lavender had anything further to say, but when she said nothing, Hermione kept going.

"Yaxley committed suicide before he could be interrogated. But Lestrange didn't. Plus he's insane. There was a good chance they'd subpoena his memories." Hermione couldn't figure out a way to explain why Snape had seized them that didn't sound like the two of them were maniacs with no care for the rule of law, which, in a way, they were. It was one of the things they had in common. She just cut to the chase and hoped Lavender would assume that they'd acted to cover their own arses. "So, Snape took them before anyone else did."

"He took them," said Lavender, her voice flat.

"Right." Hermione looked down at the memories in her hand and rolled the bottle between her fingers. "Right now, this is the only copy that exists. If you want to prosecute, it's up to you. If you don't, no-one need ever know. Even if Umbridge or Marietta did know and told someone, it would just be hearsay; you could deny it."

"No-one is going to know?" For the first time in the conversation, a flicker of emotion crossed Lavender's face.

"Snape knows," said Hermione. "You know, Parvati knows, I know. I swear to you that neither Snape nor I will tell anyone. I can guarantee it."

"You're sure about Snape?"

Hermione nodded adamantly. "He made me a highly restricted potion without even knowing who I was going to give it to, then he talked his way into the Aurors' offices and stole a memory from a prisoner." She paused for a second and decided Lavender deserved to hear the rest of it, too. "He also hit Lestrange with a particularly nasty curse—the Dolens membrum."

"Oh, yeah? I wish I knew how to cast that; could come in handy." Lavender glanced over at the Pensieve and changed the topic. "Is that yours?" she asked.

"It's McGonagall's. Listen, you don't need to view the memory unless you want to. Snape said it was brutal."

"I want to," said Lavender decisively. She held out her hand for the memory, and Hermione handed it over.

"You know how to use the Pensieve?"

"Yeah, my dad has one."

They'd shared a room for seven years and only when Lavender was about to watch a memory of herself being brutally raped did Hermione realise that she had no idea what Lavender's parents did for a living. They were practically strangers to each other.

Hermione braced herself. "Do you want me to watch it with you?"

"No, thank you," said Lavender politely. "I'd rather you weren't even in the room."

Hermione felt an inordinate rush of relief. She didn't actually think she could bear to watch the memory, but if Lavender had wanted her to, she would have.

"Okay," she said. She stood up. "I'll wait outside," she added. "Just call out if you need anything."

Lavender made a noncommittal noise, and Hermione let herself out of the room. In the staircase, she paused, at something of a loss. After a few moments, she sat down on the stairs to wait.

The temporality of memory was a flexible thing. Hermione had no idea as to the length of Lavender's original ordeal or how long it would take to relive the experience. According to her watch, she sat and waited for precisely eighteen minutes, but in truth it felt like an hour. Only towards the end of that time did she hear anything at all from the room: there was some heavy breathing, a cry, some loud bangs. Hermione leapt to her feet at once, going so far as to lay her hand on the doorknob. She tried to turn the knob to no avail: Lavender had locked it from the inside. There was another sound, a sob perhaps, on the other side of the door. Hermione hesitated, unsure as to whether she should unlock the door or not—Lavender clearly wanted privacy, or at least, had wanted privacy before she viewed the memory. Hermione hadn't yet decided what to do when she heard steps approaching the door.

Hermione stepped back, removing her hand guiltily.

The door opened.

"Hi," said Lavender. "Don't worry, the Pensieve is fine."

It hadn't even occurred to Hermione to worry about the Pensieve. "How are you?" she asked instead, hating the stupidity of the question the second it had left her mouth.

"Alright, I guess," said Lavender. She raised a handful of silver filaments in one hand. "I think I might have damaged the memory beyond repair."

Hermione widened her eyes. The threads of memory were distended and hardened; they made an oddly beautiful structure, bunched up in Lavender's hand.

"Hermione," said Lavender, stepping into the corridor beside her. She looked at Hermione, at the memories she held, then at the stairs. Unexpectedly she sat down, gesturing to Hermione to join her.

Hermione sat.

"Hermione," said Lavender again, "I want to say thank you, and to apologise."

"You don't need to do either," said Hermione quickly.

"No, I do." Lavender pulled a face. "I said some horrible things about you." She pulled at the strands of memory.

Hermione pressed her eyes closed for a second. "Lestrange said that you fought hard," she replied.

Lavender made a sound that was almost a laugh. "I did," she acknowledged. "But I lost it in the end."

"I would have done anything to stop this having happened to you," said Hermione, feeling wretched.

"I know." Lavender nodded. "I know that to be true." She looked up into Hermione's face. "I really appreciate everything you've done for me. I know you wouldn't have kept this secret if it happened to you, and it means a lot to me that you're willing to respect my decision. Thanks for everything."

"It was nothing."

Lavender gave her a look under her eyebrows that communicated exactly how little she believed it was nothing. Then she transferred her attention back to the memories—holding them up and out in front of her. "What do you reckon?" she asked. "I'm thinking about making it into a necklace."

Hermione blinked for a moment at the abrupt change in topic. Then she realised it wasn't a change of topic at all. Lavender was girly in ways that Hermione had always assumed were shallow, but she was also gutsy and as hard as stone where it mattered. They made terrible roommates, and they might never be friends—not in the way Hermione had always understood the word, nor in the way that Lavender could be friends with other, more Pavati like girls—yet she had fought for Hermione, fought against the odds, against brutal violence.

"I think it would really suit you," she said once she'd found her voice. "It really would."

* * *

><p>The thought of exams sat in Hermione's stomach like a twisted piece of wire. It wasn't the all-out panic of her younger self: she knew she would pass everything, indeed, she felt pretty confident she would pass all her subjects with an Outstanding, despite the fact that her planned week of intense revision had been replaced with a week flat on her back in the Hospital Wing. In truth, Hermione knew that her anxiety was mostly bound up in the idea of how disappointed she'd be if she didn't get straight Os. Even one E would be a crushing disappointment, but in the face of everything that had happened over the last week, a bad grade seemed a small thing to be upset about.<p>

On Tuesday afternoon she waited outside the Great Hall with Harry, counting down the minutes before their Potions N.E.W.T. They stood at some remove from the other students, and Harry kept muttering the properties of various ingredients to himself or dipping into his satchel to check something in the Half-Blood Prince's annotated textbook. Hermione was keeping an eye out for Severus, hoping that he might put in an appearance, perhaps to verify something with the Ministry examiners or to check that everyone was on time. When a silver python barrelled around the corner and shot towards them, she was startled—even once she recognised the Patronus for what it was, her heart continued to thud painfully against her chest and her skin crawled. The snake wrapped itself around her feet and up, over Harry's lap, to encircle them both around the shoulders, spitting and hissing the entire time. Hermione stared, horrified, into the snake's silver eyes as its mouth yawned wide in front of her face. Then thankfully, it dissolved and disappeared.

"Well," said Harry, adjusting his glasses and smiling rather fondly, "that was nice."

Hermione swallowed. "Er," she managed, "did that snake just talk to us?"

"Uh-huh," agreed Harry.

"Using Jocelyn's voice, right?"

"Uh-huh," he said again.

"And what did it say, exactly?"

He gave her a searching look. "Are you okay, Hermione?"

"Yes, I'm fine." Hermione needed him to answer her question. "I just want to confirm that I wasn't imagining things."

He laughed at her evident discomfort. "She said, 'Be brave, my Gryffindors, and good luck on the exam'."

"That's what I thought," lied Hermione. Harry never had been any good at noticing when something or someone was speaking Parseltongue.

Contemplatively, she adjusted the "Mudblood Pride" badge pinned to the lapel of her robes. She certainly found Jocelyn's Patronus terrifying—despite the forewarning she'd received—but on the plus side it made the prospect of a long fight against blood prejudice seem much more inviting than it had before. She might need to postpone the start date of her campaign until Jocelyn graduated from school, but she felt pretty confident that the two of them, working together, could achieve great things.

* * *

><p>Hermione stayed in her last exam until the final second—even though it cut down the time she would have to prepare for the Commemoration Ball. Only when the elderly witch at the front of the room wheezed that it was time to put quills down did she let the parchment snap shut and shake out her aching hand.<p>

Her mind was still full of Gellert Grindelwald as she left the room, and she might not have noticed Neville waiting in the foyer if he hadn't jumped up at her approach.

"Hi, Neville," she said, taken aback to see him.

"Hi, Hermione, how was the exam?"

She rocked her head from side to side and laughed at herself. "I could have squeezed out another inch or two about Muggle history and the Second World War if I'd had a few more minutes." She rubbed the palm of her wand hand, which still hurt from the hours of written questions she'd endured. "What's up with you?"

"I, er . . . Are you walking back to the tower?"

"Yes," said Hermione, wondering what it was that Neville was trying to work himself up to say.

"I'll walk with you." Neville gestured expansively towards in the direction of the stairs, and Hermione, with a thoughtful tilt to her head, began to walk with him.

Neville made inane chit-chat about the weather and the impending summer until the staircase they were on swung out into midair, effectively stopping their progress. "Hermione," he said in a rush as they swung out clockwise over the atrium, "I owe you an apology."

"Really?" she said. There was a little wriggling worm of hope in her chest.

"I'm gay," he said, as if it were a terrible confession.

"Neville! That's wonderful!" Hermione seized hold of his arm in her joy. "Congratulations!"

The staircase had stopped moving entirely, leaving them stranded in space.

"No," he said, laying a restraining hand over hers, "you don't understand. You see, this entire year I've been secretly in love with Ron—"

"That's okay," said Hermione. "That's nothing to be ashamed of! He's a loveable guy."

"You're being very sweet." Neville didn't look at all comforted. "But you really have to understand. I have tried very hard not to come between you—and yet at the same time I wanted to spend all my time with him. I _know_ things have been a bit rocky between you, but when you were kidnapped he was devastated. I realised that I can't keep on like this. Hanging around straight guys with girlfriends—it's just not cool."

"Neville," said Hermione slowly, wanting to break through his despair and searching for the words that would do so without breaking her promise to Ron. Something had to give. "Ron and I broke up."

"You did?" Neville looked devastated. "I'm so sorry, Hermione."

"That's okay. It wasn't your fault. Besides, I'm absolutely convinced that we are better off as friends."

"Maybe it was my fault! If I hadn't been spending so much time with him—"

"Neville," said Hermione sharply, cutting off the self-flagellating diatribe as quickly as possible. "I understand that you feel you've done me a disservice." He nodded his agreement. "Well, I'm prepared to totally and utterly forgive you on one condition."

"Anything!"

"Tell Ron exactly what you just told me."

Neville blanched. "Tell him that I _like _him?"

"Exactly."

Neville took a deep, horrified breath and held it for a long moment. He let it out in a noisy rush. "You're right," he said. "I need to tell him. I abused his friendship, and he deserves to hear the truth of it from me." Hermione opened her mouth to contradict his use of terminology, but he pressed on. "I'm going to come out to everyone, Hermione," he said. "I already wrote a letter to my gran. I know it's not the Wizarding way, but I'm sick of being lying and being scared that someone will find out. I'm going to tell everyone on my own terms."

"Good for you, Neville," said Hermione, touched and thrilled. "Tell Ron first," she added.

"Okay," he said, taking a few fortifying breaths. "I'll do it right now."

"Oh, Neville!" Hermione threw her arms around him and gave him a big hug; he looked so noble and handsome in his convictions. "I'm so proud of you."

With a groaning noise, the staircase started up once more, unexpectedly swinging them back in precisely the direction they wanted to go. It seemed prophetic.

"Thanks, Hermione," said Neville. "I really am sorry for my behaviour throughout the year. It wasn't fair."

"I'm the one that should be apologising to you," said Hermione too quietly for him to hear. "Just make sure you tell Ron, and everything should work out just fine," she added more loudly.

Neville grimaced. "If that's what it takes," he said.

* * *

><p>"Finally!" exclaimed Parvati as Hermione shouldered her way into the dorm room.<p>

"I bet you stayed in the Hall, scribbling answers right up until they dragged the parchment out of your resisting fingers." Lavender was grinning at her, and Hermione realised she was being teased.

"Did I miss something?" Hermione had expected to find the room empty. Typically Lavender and Parvati prepped for such events in Padma's room—presumably with a whole posse of Pureblood girls who had grown up together. This time the two of them had already done their hair and faces, though they were still dressed in t-shirts and shorts—in Parvati's case her shorts were so short that the pockets hung out the bottom.

"We," announced Parvati, her hands clasped under her chin and an expression of pure delight on her face, "are going to do your hair!"

Hermione baulked.

"You know," added Lavender conversationally, "that Sleekeazy thing you usually do does nothing for you. You should really work with your natural curl."

Hermione forced her shoulders back down to their normal level. She looked at the veritable array of combs, clips, and beauty products spread out on the central dresser and she tried to relax. _You can do this_, she told herself sternly. Lavender and Parvati clearly meant well, and there was little to be gained by insulting them now.

"Okay," she said, swallowing her reluctance and letting her satchel slide from shoulder to bed. Parvati quite literally leapt up and down a few times with glee; Lavender took her by the shoulder and steered her into the waiting chair. When Hermione caught sight of her own apprehensive expression in the mirror, she had to laugh.

Their conversation was still awkward—the eleventh-hour attempts at reconciliation, though genuine on both sides, did little to bridge the very different personalities of those involved. Lavender and Parvati were well able to chatter over Hermione's head, however, and she herself did her best not to be irritated by a conversation that focussed, for the most part, on colours and styles and who took whom to which party. They did, she had to admit, know what they were doing: they combed out her hair, and sprayed it down with some unidentifiable substance; then they began to twist and plait and pin. There was some difficult-to-discern logic behind their movements, too, and a distinct hair style began to emerge from their actions. In essence, they'd piled her hair up on her head, weaving different strands of it into a complicated structure that seemed both haphazard and impeccably balanced. When they were done, there were tiny braids that held the mounds of her hair in place: they wove through a riot of curls, curving and falling around her face, framing it, and setting off the angle of her neck and chin.

"Wow," she said, as Lavender held up a mirror to show her the back of her head. "I didn't even know my hair could look like that."

"Now," said Parvati, as if announcing dessert, "make-up!"

"No," said Hermione. "No, no, no, no." She held up her hands to make her refusal perfectly clear.

"Hermione," said Lavender, gently but firmly, "you have to trust us. We're not going to make you look like a tart. Promise."

Every instinct told Hermione to flee. She sat right on the edge of her chair, ready to bolt.

"If you don't like it," said Parvati reasonably, "you can wash it off."

Hermione breathed out through her nose. "Okay," she conceded, allowing Lavender to push her back into her chair.

They were, thank goodness, subtle: just tiny touches of bronze, glimmering on her eyelids, a sheen on her lips, a gentle glow on her cheeks.

"Okay?" asked Parvati.

"You did a very good job," she said.

Parvati grinned contentedly.

"We weren't about to make you look like someone you're not," said Lavender, surveying the results of her labours with her hands on her hips.

"Thank you," said Hermione, meaning it. She looked at herself in the mirror. She looked beautiful—more grown up and sophisticated than she would have looked under her own ministrations.

"You're welcome," said Lavender, exchanging a loaded glance with Parvati. "But we're not quite done."

Hermione looked from the reflection of one girl to the other.

"So," said Parvati, drawing out the vowel. She added the rest in a rush: "We got you a dress!"

Hermione was stunned. "You . . . why?"

"Why not?" asked Lavender. She shrugged. "This is our last week as roommates; we haven't always been the best of friends, but we can end on a good note."

"Besides," added Parvati, "We've been itching to give you a makeover since you hit puberty!" She punctuated the sentence with an arch look, and Hermione was left not knowing whether she was serious or not.

Lavender took the dress out of her wardrobe and held it out for Hermione to see.

"We matched the colour to your Animagus plumage," she said.

Both young women were waiting with bated breath for Hermione's reaction.

"It's beautiful," she said. She reached out and ran the tip of a finger across the shimmery fabric.

"Let's put it on!" exclaimed Parvati, clapping her hands together.

Hermione took off her regular clothes, and rummaged in her drawers for some fancier underwear.

"Okay, those I approve of," said Parvati, saluting her choice.

Lavender and Parvati helped her into the dress, fussing until it hung correctly. They wouldn't let her look in the mirror until they decided she was ready: Hermione was stunned at the result.

"I didn't even know I could look like this," she admitted. "Thank you."

"If anyone asks," said Parvati, suddenly diffident, "you could tell them that I made the dress."

"You made it?" Hermione stared at Parvati and then back at her reflection. She couldn't believe her ears.

"Yes." Parvati preened, just a little. "Lavender's hoping for a Divination apprenticeship, but I'm hoping for a job at Madame Malkin's."

* * *

><p>Hermione's arrival at the ball caused a stir. It wasn't just the dress, either. Within feet from the door, someone called out "Gryffindor!" and several others took up the cry. She stood there, awkwardly, scanning the room for someone she knew well enough to approach; it was with a huge wave of relief that she spotted Ron, with Harry and Ginny dancing nearby. Moving, however, didn't stop the stares, and Hermione felt terribly self-conscious. As she crossed the endless expanse of the floor, she started to hurry. Ron saw her coming and stepped towards her, his arms held wide, and a goofy, delighted smile on his face. Hermione practically threw herself into his arms, desperate to hide her face against his broad shoulder. He spun her up and into the air, and as the flashbulbs of the Wizarding paparazzi went off around them, she laughed at his exuberant welcome.<p>

The spin went on, recklessly careening into the middle of the dancers.

"Good news," he whispered into her ear, "I've got a boyfriend!"

Only then did he put her down, though he continued to twirl her around the dance floor, a smug expression on his face. Hermione smiled up at him. "I'm so, so happy for you both!"

"All thanks to you," said Ron, giving her waist a squeeze.

The photographers around them continued unabated.

"Ron," she said, as the irony dawned, "this is the least effective break-up dance, ever."

"Fuck it," he said. "Let's give them something to talk about."

He led her in an exuberant, ridiculous dance: twirling her out to the end of his arm, and spinning her in; tipping her back and leaning over her; and lifting her up at the corners to rotate on the spot. He wasn't the most amazing dancer, and they spent a lot of the time barely avoiding collisions; he also stood on her foot—twice. The sheer excess had her laughing almost to the point of hysteria.

"You have to stop," she gasped at one point, "I'm losing it!"

"No, no!" he replied. "We're winning! We can't stop now!"

The dance came to a last, triumphant end: Ron spun her out in such an enthusiastic flourish that Hermione was lucky to keep her feet. Almost immediately, someone seized hold of her free hand.

"The next dance, I believe, is mine."

Hermione turned to find a portly, middle-aged wizard in ruffled, pale blue robes. She must have stared at him rather blankly, for he smiled helpfully and provided his name: "Hector Blathering, senior undersecretary to the Minister's chief assistant."

The music had already started for the next dance and Hector began to pull rather insistently on her hand. Hermione cast a beseeching glance at Ron, who looked flummoxed.

"Er," he said.

Ron's hesitation provided enough of on opportunity for Hector to catch Hermione up into the dance position.

"Make sure you come find me afterwards," called Ron as she was led away. She shot him a rather nasty glance over Hector's shoulder, which just made him grin and shrug. "Don't bite his head off!" he shouted.

_Not funny_. Ron's jibe, however hilarious he might have found it, left Hermione nauseas. And while she tried to be polite, the dance was dire. Ron wasn't the most graceful of partners, and he regularly stood on her toes, but he was a nice height to lean against, he smelled good, and his hands weren't sweaty. That was three strikes against Hector Blathering. Plus Blathering blathered.

As that dance came to a close, a second man cut in. "Marvin Puceton," he said, introducing himself, "Deputy Sub-Deacon of Acquisitions." Once again, he was older than Hermione's father, although this particular specimen was tall and thin where Blathering was not. While dancing, his hands strayed below her waist, which occasioned her to recall Ron's words, this time on her own behalf. "If you do that again," she said through gritted teeth, "I will bite your head off." She gave Puceton a toothy, if forced, smile. His hands returned to a bearable location for the duration of the song.

"Hermione Gryffindor," said a third man as the dance came to an end, "allow me!"

"I'm sorry," said Hermione without any attempt at a tone of sincerity, "but I've just seen someone I absolutely need to speak with." She stepped decisively away from the dance floor, making towards the only familiar face in sight. "Hooch!" Hermione said with relief. She grasped for the older woman's hand as if it were a lifeline.

"You've no shortage of dance partners tonight, Hermione Gryffindor," she replied. Hooch leaned rather heavily on her cane, and one shoulder was propped against a pillar.

"I'd rather be dancing with you," Hermione confessed, surprised at how vehemently she meant it.

"Alas, I think it will be some time before I'm fit to dance." Hooch tapped on the floor with the cane to illustrate her point.

Hermione scanned the room for a glimpse of a familiar silhouette. Though there were a healthy dose of Hogwarts students in attendance, most of the crowd was made up of adult witches and wizards—predominantly Ministry employees, she guessed.

"You and the Weasley boy put on quite a show."

"Yes." Hermione took a deep breath and asked directly for the information she wanted. "I don't suppose you've seen Snape, have you?" Hooch pinned her with an interrogative look, and Hermione attempted, rather gracelessly, to explain her question away. "I, er, wanted to thank him for all his help this year."

"Last I saw him," Hooch said, her golden eyes unwaveringly focussed on Hermione, "he was upstairs—sulking." Hermione turned her gaze immediately, seeking for the way up. "Over there," added Hooch, pointing at the staircase.

"Thanks," she said.

"Be brave, Gryffindor," said Hooch, extracting a hip flask from her sleeve and holding it up in a mock toast. "You're going to need it."

* * *

><p>It took a while to find Severus, a circumstance that was exacerbated by the sheer number of men—mostly older men—who wanted to talk to her. Hermione was ready to scream in frustration. She lifted a glass of champagne from a floating tray, which at least stopped the many offers to get her a drink, but she soon resorted to repeating a desperate need to find the bathroom—a blunt approach that put her in a rather unflattering light, but did have the benefit of shutting down those who would otherwise have offered to accompany her to her destination.<p>

At least the champagne helped. Hermione switched her nearly empty glass for a full one, and pressed onwards. Everywhere she turned there were faces staring at her—male and female. There were voices whispering "Hermione Gryffindor"; she was starting to hate that name.

"If I were Snape," she asked herself, "and I wanted to get away from these fools, where would I go?"

She tried to visualise the floor plan of the upper level, then headed outwards, away from the central balcony overlooking the ballroom. Hermione wandered through a series of interlocking antechambers—all dark wood and large oil paintings—and finally found herself at the edge of the building: a long gallery, lined on one side with large, vaulting windows, and at the far end, a tall, dark figure in impeccable dress robes. Her heart leapt into her throat.

For a moment, Hermione paused on the threshold, watching Severus where he stood, his back and the sole of one foot against the wall, a glass of Firewhiskey on a marble mantle beside him. He had been lost in his thoughts, but at the sound of her arrival or the weight of her gaze, he looked up. Hermione could feel his fury, she could taste it.

"Hi," she said. Her voice sounded too high; she drank a mouthful of champagne.

"Miss Granger," he said and turned his gaze away.

His words shivered down her spine. For a second, she considered flight: she could run to the Apparition foyer and leave, maybe she'd even make it that far before the tears started. Or not. Hermione pushed back her shoulders and walked down the long hall towards him. She walked right up beside him and leant against the wall next to where he stood.

"This is a beautiful room," she said.

"What are you doing here?"

_Looking for you._ "If one more elderly Ministry employee tries to dance with me—just so that he can claim, afterwards, that he's groped the Gryffindor—I might blow up the room."

His eyes flickered towards her for the briefest moment. "I would have thought, that for all his manifold inadequacies, your boyfriend should prove capable of fending off unwanted dance partners."

"Ah," said Hermione, running a finger lightly around the mouth of her champagne flute, "but I don't have a boyfriend."

She had his attention then. He turned his face towards her so quickly that his hair swung out in an arc. "I saw you," he spat, "dancing with him. Don't lie to me."

His face was rigid with anger and oh-so-very-close to her own. Her heart rate quickened, but she forced herself to stay very still. "I don't think I could lie to you," she replied.

"Nonsense." He turned his head away once more; Hermione felt a sharp stab of loss. "I taught you Occlumency myself."

Hermione took another mouthful of champagne. She let the bubbles fizz against her tongue and her teeth before she swallowed, her eyes closed. _Be brave, Gryffindor._ She opened her eyes.

"Can I tell you a secret?" she asked, turning her head and tilting it up towards him. "About Ron?"

He looked down at her from the corner of his eye. He didn't say anything to encourage her, but he didn't discourage her, either.

"He's gay," she confessed.

For more than thirty seconds, Severus didn't move: not a breath, not a blink. Then he tilted his head up towards the ceiling. "He's . . . _gay_?"

"Yep." Severus turned his face to her, and Hermione smiled. She lifted her shoulders.

"How long have you known?" Incredulous.

"Since Christmas." Hermione attempted to smother her grin in her glass of wine.

Though Severus hadn't moved, the tension was bleeding from his body.

"I hesitate to tell you the worst part." She waited just long enough for him to draw his brows together, uncertain as to whether he should be apprehensive or not. "Ron . . . is going out with Neville."

"Longbottom and Weasley?" Severus stood for a moment with his mouth open. She couldn't remember ever seeing him lost for words. "Thank Merlin they can't reproduce!"

"Well," she said, elongating the word. "It's possible I may have offered my services."

He blinked. "One can only hope that your genes will dominate."

"A test case," teased Hermione, "in the Nature versus Nurture debate."

"Indeed." Struck by a thought, Severus patted his chest and then reached into his breast pocket. He pulled out a slim packet of paper. "These arrived this afternoon: it's only the page proofs but I thought you might like to see it."

It was their Wolfsbane article, and right there at the top were their names: "By Hermione Granger & Severus Snape." Hermione ran a finger across the words. The ampersand looked like a knot, tying them together.

"I have another copy," he said. "That one is for you. We have to send any corrections within the week."

"Wow," she said. "I'll, er—"

"Read it later?" he suggested. He was laughing at her, but not in a nasty way.

"Yes," she agreed. She realised that she was grinning like a fool. With a happy pat to the cover, Hermione tucked the proofs away.

They stood there in companionable silence for a short while: Hermione beaming, Severus sipping at his Firewhiskey. Hermione was turning over possible ways to induce him to dance. The answer came from an unexpected source.

"Hermione Gryffindor!" exclaimed a voice from the door. "I have been looking everywhere for you!"

At the sight of Cornelius Fudge, Hermione slid fractionally closer to Severus. She reached out a hand along the wall and took hold of his robes. She pulled on them—subtly, but enough that he could not fail to notice.

"I insist on a dance, you know!"

Severus put his glass down on the mantel with an audible click. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, Cornelius," he drawled, "but the next dance is mine."

There was a flash of annoyance in Fudge's eyes. "Come now, Severus!" he said. "You've had her locked up in that school of yours all year."

Severus had lifted Hermione's glass from her fingers, and with a casual flick of his wrist he sent it floating towards the mantelpiece. Taking her hand firmly in his, he led her towards the door.

"There are, alas," he said as they passed a flabbergasted Fudge, "so few opportunities for dancing during the school year."

Hermione found that the whispers and comments of the crowd were much easier to bear with Severus by her side. As they approached the dance floor, they passed Ron and Neville.

Severus hesitated for a bare second. "Mr Weasley," he said with a dignified nod of his head, "Mr Longbottom."

"Professor Snape," replied Ron politely. His eyes went to the place where their hands were joined and then rose to Hermione's face. As she brushed past him, he lifted his fist and she bumped her hand against it.

Then she and Severus took the floor. His arm was around her, her hand in his. She knew she had a triumphant look on her face, and though she tried to hide it, the attempt was in vain. Instead, she leant her forehead into his chest and smiled into the sharp creases of his dress robes.

"Don't look now," he murmured on the second turn, "but Weasley and Longbottom are dancing."

"Together?" she demanded, lifting her head immediately—despite his warning—and twisting her neck to look. "Together!" she confirmed delightedly. Evidently they'd come to no consensus about who would lead, and their dancing was more like a manly hug that happened to be moving than any dancing in the literal, Wizarding style.

All around them people were staring—and it wasn't just that they two of them were famous names, it was that the two of them were wizards.

"There's Jocelyn, too!" said Hermione. Jocelyn and Chelsea barged onto the floor beside Ron and Neville. Draco and Astoria, looking impeccably graceful, followed in their wake. Jocelyn had a dancing style that reminded Hermione of Fred and George at their finest. She managed to catch Jocelyn's eye and waved; Jocelyn gave her a thumbs up.

"Kingsley's noticed," said Severus, nodding discreetly to his left.

Hermione, who had abandoned discreet quite happily, swivelled her head round to look. Kingsley was staring at the dance floor, taken aback. As she watched, he turned on his heel, stalked over to a tall, thin wizard dressed in an impeccably tailored set of pale blue robes, and dragged him back by the hand towards the dancers. The other wizard—who had been mid-sentence with an interlocutor—protested right up until the moment he was locked in Kingsley's embrace. Then he sighed, rather theatrically, and allowed himself to be twirled under Kingsley's arm. They weren't that far away, and Hermione heard him remark, "You could have warned me, darling, I would have worn different shoes."

"What about Hooch and Poppy?" demanded Hermione, craning her neck. "Do you see them?"

"They won't," said Severus. He sounded about ninety-five percent sure, but he was definitely looking, his dark eyes scanning the room.

"Why not?" asked Hermione. People around the room had started to notice the odd couples littering the floor. Several other same-sex couples had caught on and had also joined the dance. Hermione felt her heart swell in her chest. There were flashbulbs going off all around them, but she felt pretty confident that her dance with Snape had just slipped several notches of newsworthiness further down the ladder.

"Poppy had a very prestigious medicinal apprenticeship when she first left school. One day her Master discovered that she'd spent her Saturday afternoon at what she calls a 'Sapphic picnic.' She was dismissed without references. She spent a long period unemployed, and as I understand it, she only got the job at Hogwarts because Albus went in to bat for her with Dippet."

"That's terrible," said Hermione. Something of the lustre of the evening faded. At that very moment, she caught sight of Molly and Arthur. Molly was staring at Ron and Neville, her face a picture of shock. Molly's eyes strayed over the dance floor and paused on her and Snape. Hermione's heart dropped as Molly's eyebrows inched even higher. She watched, turning her head each time Severus spun her in the dance, as Molly pulled Arthur towards Ron. The expression on Molly's face was little different from the one she wore when she killed Bellatrix.

When she got to Ron, Molly pulled Arthur towards her. "Dance, you fool," she hissed. They began to dance.

Hermione felt dizzy with surprise and relief. She caught sight of Ron's face. He, too, looked stunned.

"There's Hooch," said Severus.

"Where?" asked a familiar voice behind them.

They both turned to find Poppy, standing alone on the dance floor beside them.

"Beside that pillar, watching," said Severus, swallowing his surprise and lifting his arm to point.

"Old girl's been waiting nearly sixty years for this dance," said Poppy, a funny catch in her voice. "It wouldn't do for her to miss it."

Hermione said, "I think I'm going to cry." Severus held her a little more tightly, and she rested her head on his chest.

He kept them virtually still, swaying in place as they watched Poppy thread her way through the dancers to Hooch. Hooch stood up straighter at her approach. They watched Hooch lift up her cane and gesture with it, watched Poppy take it out of her hands and lean it against the pillar. They saw Poppy take Hooch's weight as the other woman leant against her, watched them rock back and forth in time to the music.

"This is perfect," said Hermione as the song wove its way to a gentle close. "It's the happy ending everyone has been waiting for."

Severus made a noise of agreement, half a bark of laughter, half a grunt.

"Well then," huffed an unwelcome voice behind them. "You can't put me off a second time!"

It was Fudge once again. Hermione felt Severus' arm tighten in response. She lifted up her head, resting her chin on his chest, as high as it would go. He looked down into her face.

"Let's run away," she whispered. He did laugh then, throwing back his head. "I'm serious."

"Can you imagine the papers? They'd have a field day."

Undeterred by their lack of response, Fudge was becoming more vocal. "Snape! Unhand Miss Granger immediately!"

"Well, they'd have worse things to say if I were to transform here and now and terrify everyone within clawing distance," proposed Hermione quite reasonably.

"They'll start calling me the Heir of Slytherin," he said. Neither of them had bothered to glance at Fudge.

"You can just correct the error: 'Father to the Heir of Slytherin'."

He looked down at her through narrowed eyes.

"Did you realise that Jocelyn was a Parselmouth?" she asked in her most conversational tone.

"No," he said. The corner of his mouth curved up, and she realised that he was happy at the idea.

"Yes," she said expansively. "I've got big plans for her. Between the two of us I'm pretty sure we can change the world."

"I'm imagining a large, Hollywood-style sign in the main square of Hogsmeade: MUDBLOOD PRIDE."

"Now, that's an _excellent_ idea!"

Though Severus kept steering them away, Fudge kept following. He was fast shifting out of irate and into apoplectic.

Hermione slid her hand from where it sat, decorously, on Severus' shoulder, up and around to cup the back of his neck. "Come on," she said quietly, "let's get out of here."

Severus looked down at her with an unreadable expression. "If you insist," he said. His arm tightened, and he lifted her entirely off the ground. Then, right there, in the middle of the dance floor, with Fudge bearing down upon them, they Disapparated.

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><p>AN: At the risk of spoiling the storyline: there will be lemons in the next chapter. If that's not your thing, please consider this your "fade to black" and join us the chapter afterwards for the epilogue.


	37. Chapter 36: Reciprocity

_Phoenix Fire_, Chapter 36: Reciprocity

DISCLAIMER: The characters described in this story are the property of the incomparable J.K. Rowling. I make no money from this story, which exists as a work of tribute.

A/N: Firstly, big thanks to the two wonderful people who were generous enough to alpha read this chapter for me: Steggie and Dressagegrrrl, you're thoughts and comments were much appreciated and (with the exception of the word chutney!) taken very much to heart.

Secondly, this chapter is for Luna de Papel, weeblz-kat, and JeniDRalph, all of whom wrote to me about the way this story has resonated with their real lives, and also for Curious Psyche, for a PM that was wonderfully, deliciously incoherent in its enthusiasm.

And lastly—but not leastly—to those of my readers who are under the legal age of consent I feel obligated (as the mother of a young daughter) to preface the imminent sex scene with a few comments. First and foremost: CONSENT IS SEXY. You should feel free to do whatever you so desire with your own body, on the single condition that any other bodies involved in the act need to consent as well. You also need to feel free to refuse anything that you're not comfortable with. It can be awkward and embarrassing to talk about sex, but words are power, my friends; when everyone concerned is on the same page the sex will be better and more rewarding! Also make sure that the people you are intimate with will respect your boundaries outside the bedroom as well as inside it: who are they going to talk about it with afterwards and how will you feel about that? Be bold, be brave, and don't be ashamed of yourself or your desires.

Second, I want to remind everyone that you shouldn't—ever—be having sex with your teacher. If you think you might be the exception to this rule and that honestly, truly, you are in love with someone who just happens to be your teacher, then you still have to wait until your high school reunion to make a move. Quite seriously, a good friend of mine is happily married (with a beautiful child) to one of her high school teachers; they got together at the REUNION. Okay? Okay. On that note, I think we're ready to proceed . . .

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><p>Severus danced and concentrated on the details: he catalogued her smell, the silky feel of her dress across the small of her back, the press of her against his chest. He had Hermione Granger in his arms, and he fully intended to remember every goddamn second of their interaction.<p>

All too soon he could hear Fudge behind them, trying to cut in. His voice was a blunt instrument he tried and failed to ignore.

Severus looked down at Hermione and searched for the words that might convince her to keep dancing with him instead. _"It's the happy ending everyone has been waiting for."_ The memory of her words knocked painfully against his breastbone. If only she'd meant that the way he wanted her to.

Hermione had leant in so close that her chin was against his chest; her head was tipped right back.

"Let's run away," she whispered.

So close were her words to his own desires that he had to laugh at himself. There wasn't a straight man in the room—with the exception perhaps, of Harry Potter—who wouldn't have wanted to take her home.

"I'm serious," she added.

"Can you imagine the papers?" Severus allowed himself a crazy vision of them both Disapparating from the middle of the dance floor—to hell with social niceties. "They'd have a field day."

Severus steered them away from Fudge, who followed. Fudge's aggressive behaviour and their lack of response was starting to draw attention. Severus would have to let her go soon or start a scandal.

"Snape! Unhand Miss Granger immediately!"

People were staring, but Hermione seemed unperturbed. "Well," she said with a small smile that gave no indication that she wanted to be unhanded, "they'd have worse things to say if I were to transform here and now and terrify everyone in clawing distance."

"They'll start calling me the Heir of Slytherin," he said. He knew it was a disservice to Hermione to let rumours about them gain traction, but he just couldn't bring himself to let go when she was willingly dancing in his arms.

"You can just correct the error: 'Father to the Heir of Slytherin'."

His eyes narrowed as he words hit home.

"Did you realise that Jocelyn was a Parselmouth?" she asked, a delightful curve turning up the edges of her mouth at both sides.

"No," he said. He thought about Jocelyn—his _daughter_—and swelled with pride.

"Yes," said Hermione, grinning. "I've got big plans for her. Between the two of us I'm pretty sure we can change the world."

"I'm imagining a large, Hollywood-style sign in the main square of Hogsmeade: MUDBLOOD PRIDE."

"Now, that's an _excellent_ idea!"

Far from giving up gracefully, Fudge was still following. He was getting louder.

Hermione slid her hand from his shoulder, upwards, until her hand cupped the back of his neck. His knees felt weak. To anyone looking, it must seem—

He broke the thought off, determined not to cross that line, determined not to read too much into her actions despite the urgings of his traitorous heart.

"Come on," she said quietly, "let's get out of here."

It was going to be a public relations disaster, but he couldn't turn her down.

"If you insist," he said.

They might as well do it with style: he lifted her entirely off the ground and spun with her, twisting just far enough to be out of Fudge's reach, then he Disapparated. They arrived to the sound of Hermione laughing. Severus held onto her as she caught her balance, then he reluctantly let go.

"Where are we?" she asked, one hand still resting on his arm.

"Beside the Thames," he said. He'd Apparated them under a bridge—where the dark and the shadows ensured that no-one would notice their arrival. Anyone who did see them huddled together in the dark would assume they were just another amorous couple.

The thought was enough to make his stomach clench.

The desire to kiss her was overwhelming. He forced himself to think of something else.

Severus' eyes were beginning to adjust to the dark. He drew his wand and Transfigured his dress robes into a tuxedo. He needed something Muggle, yet of a scale that would match her own incredible outfit.

"I should change, too," said Hermione.

"No," he said, too quickly. "You look"—he swallowed the word _amazing_ and substituted—"perfectly fine." _You look perfect; you look damn fine._

He could feel that she was looking at him, but in the dark he couldn't read her expression. He saw the pale smudge of her shoulders, saw her shift position.

"Where now?" she asked.

He shrugged in the dark, suddenly nervous. He didn't want to fuck this up; he wanted the evening to drag on into morning: long conversations about the status of the world, her hand in his, her head on his shoulder. He was a fool. "This is your escape fantasy, Hermione," he said. "The choice is yours."

"Okay." She gave a breathless laugh. "Let's walk. If we see somewhere to have a drink, we'll do that."

They wandered out from under the bridge, mingling with the crowds of late Spring. It was a mild evening, and the street lamps cast puddles of light on the stone promenade and on the water below. No-one recognised them. The passers-by accorded them nothing more than the glances and stares they shared with everyone else: noticing their formal dress, admiring Hermione's clothes, admiring Hermione.

"Just to be clear," she said, leaning into him as they walked, "I am very happy to negotiate the terms of this escape fantasy to include your desires as well."

Severus swallowed.

They strolled along, Hermione's arm still threaded through the crook of his elbow. Severus tried not to think about the fact that they looked like a couple. He tried not to think about his desires or about Minerva's advice or Hooch's anger, all of which were rattling around his head.

Undoubtedly both women knew the risks and rewards of confessing love to a female friend, yet still, they didn't have his regrettable history of wanting more than was offer. He tried to tell himself that whatever Hermione was prepared to give was enough. If she wanted a dance partner to stand guard between her and the bedazzled hordes of Ministry wizards, captivated by her power and her beauty, then he was there to help. If she wanted company on the night in which her ex declared his sexuality and advertised a new relationship, then here he was. He would rather be her friend than lose her entirely.

"How about there?" Hermione was pointing at a pub. Golden light spilled out from inside and there was a largish crowd making use of the picnic benches on the patio. Music and laughter bled from the open doors.

They turned their steps and walked inside. There was a wait to order drinks, but it didn't take inordinately long before he procured a glass of champagne for her and a glass of whiskey for himself. They found a small piece of bench at which they could hover. Hermione continued to stand right next to him; she left her hand on his arm.

Everyone there assumed they were a couple.

Hermione was gazing out towards the back of the pub. There was a DJ and a small but crowded dance floor, packed with sweaty bodies writhing and jerking to the music.

She smiled a little wistfully. "I don't suppose you dance like that, do you?"

Severus eyed the revellers with a slight sneer. "Not quite like that, no." Hermione pulled a resigned face and tried to hide it behind a smile. "I like to believe," he said, "that I dance a lot better than that."

Severus lifted two coasters from a pile in the corner and laid them over their drinks. "Come on," he said, and taking her hand for the second time that evening, he led her towards the dance floor.

He pushed his way into the crowd, carving out a tiny niche with his shoulder. He let the imperative of the bass drive its way into his bones and he started to dance. In the press of bodies, Hermione was close against him. She smiled with delight.

It was a long time since Severus had danced like this: all hips and body, no fancy footwork, no spins or twists. Instead this was about the pulse of rhythm, about sweat and melodic hooks. He didn't want to think about the future, and this music was just noisy enough that he didn't need to think about anything at all. It was a relief. Through it all, her presence was a magnet to all his senses: he was achingly aware of her body when it brushed against him, he was keen to every strand of hair that had come loose, to every boy that glanced their way, every jolt of her body as she abandoned herself to the music.

After several upbeat numbers, the DJ slipped in a ballad, and Hermione leant forwards, threading her arms around his waist. Almost automatically, his arms closed around her, defending them both against the jostling of the crowd—right next to them were a pair of drunken dancers who lunged at each other in a parody of romantic affection, laughing and joking. He felt Hermione fumble and looked down to find that she had her wand out, pointed upwards, but held close against his chest where it was unlikely to be seen. He heard the bubble of silence that sprouted from it, swelling out to encompass their heads, creating a puddle of noiselessness around them, through which the music, the laughter and the shouts of the pub could be heard as if at a distance; he felt the rush of magic as she sent a spell wooshing past his cheek.

Slowly, half afraid of what he might see, Severus tilted up his eyes and examined the ceiling above him. The dance floor was festooned with paper chains. There were a half dozen mirror balls of various sizes and a handful of coloured lights. There was also, directly above his head, a small branch of greenery, hovering in midair.

He could think of only one reason to conjure mistletoe.

Infinitely slowly, genuine terror clutching at his heart, Severus lowered his eyes to Hermione's face.

He knew she was going to kiss him, but he couldn't believe she was going to kiss him.

Hermione had her lower lip between her teeth, and her eyebrows raised. She was searching his face.

Severus swallowed awkwardly. He tried to find the means to speak.

"Mistletoe," she whispered. Moving slowly, she lifted her head to his, she raised herself on tiptoe, her eyes fluttered closed.

They had been here before. But last time, he turned his head.

Infinitely gentle, she pressed her lips to his. He could feel her softness and her strength in the curve of her mouth. His eyes closed of their own accord, and the world narrowed to the feel of her hands on his chest, her mouth on his, her lips insistent against him. Severus lowered his head into the kiss. He raised a hand, wonderingly, and let it brush against her cheek. His fingertips skidded over her cheekbone and tangled in the curves of her hair. For the briefest of seconds their lips parted, but he leant forwards, pressing his face against her, kissing her again. He felt her smile against his mouth.

She was kissing him.

What . . .

He wondered what she meant by it, about how much he could infer—about how much he wanted to infer from her actions.

Though his fingers caught in her curls and clutched at her waist, though his brain was shouting at him, kicking him for his own stupidity, he pulled his mouth away.

"Granger," he groaned, and though he was struggling for some distance it came out almost absurdly intimate. "What are we doing?"

He knew himself too well: he should be kissing, not talking, and no doubt he would regret this interruption later. But he knew, too, just how much he was hoping for more. He just needed to know what this meant; he needed some context with which to curb the optimistic leaps of his heart.

"I'm kissing you, and you're kissing me." The answer offered no guidance.

"That much is obvious," he said. He voice was pulled thin with despair. Why had he spoken?

Hermione asked him a question of her own: "Do you know why Sympathetic Magic is so difficult to predict?"

He blinked at her. Gods but he wanted her to kiss him again. "Why?" he managed, thrown by the turn the conversation had taken. Beyond their bubble of silence someone was ringing the bell for last drinks; the lights were flicking on and off.

"The participants have to want the same thing," said Hermione quietly. "They have to want the same thing from each other, in the same way." She ran a hand over the pleats of his dress shirt. "I know what you want from me, Severus, because I know what I want from you—and we want the same things."

Severus was speechless. He knew what he wanted from her. He wanted to kiss her; to pull down the neckline of her dress and put his mouth around her nipple. He wanted to spend long hours in his Potions lab, bent over a bubbling cauldron while she scribbled Arithmantic equations nearby, her hair frizzing in the humidity. He wanted to lie on the couch, reading, his head in her lap.

He wanted her.

And if she wanted the same thing then—

Then—

_It's the happy ending everyone has been waiting for._

Hermione shrugged, dropping her gaze. "I want to kiss you," she said, the tip of one finger pressed against a shirt stud, "and read with you and argue with you and wake up next to you in the mornings. I want to know that you're right behind me, catching me when I fall, and I want to save you when you need me, and I want to take you back to Grimmauld Place right now and shag you rotten."

Severus still couldn't speak.

Hermione closed her eyes. "Of course," she added, "having a desire is not the same as acting on it. You are free to make your choice, free to act or not. Just know that whatever you choose to do, I'm a willing participant."

Severus was stretched thin with new knowledge: Hermione wanted what he wanted. She had kissed him, and meant it.

She wanted him.

All he had to do was to consent.

His hand was still caught in Hermione's hair and he reached out with his thumb to stroke the full curve of her lower lip. Her eyes opened and she searched his face. Whatever it was that she found caused a tremulous smile. She squeezed him around the ribs.

"Come on," she said quietly. "Let's get out of here."

Hermione led the way out of the bar and he followed in a daze.

They wanted the same thing.

The idea buzzed along his veins, it fizzed under his skin. His heart was beating to the sound of it. His lungs filled and expelled air: they wanted the same thing.

On the esplanade he pulled her back towards him; she slid against his chest, clicked into place. He kissed her, feeling her warmth, the quick pulse of her life. He felt her hands against him, felt her fingers slide up into his hair. He gasped against her mouth, and she laughed. She laughed and he laughed with her, rocking her body against his. Fuelled by the proximity of their bodies, desire was quickening. He wanted to prolong this moment for ever, wanted to end it instantly so as to get somewhere where he might take off her clothes.

_She wants what I want. _The words were a revelation that erased his shame. Whatever his inadequacies, she wanted him—in the same way, to the same earth-shaking, mind-blowing degree. The proof of that thudded along his veins, jumped at his throat where her song had once sung torn flesh back together.

They hurried towards Grimmauld Place in fits and spurts, stopping for long moments to kiss under the bridge, and then in the square, and then again at the top of the steps. Severus had a brief moment of panic as the door swung open—suddenly convinced that the shade of Albus Dumbledore was about to rush at him and bind him up in his guilt and grief, but the hall was blessedly empty. They stole past Old Mrs. Black's portrait, and tiptoed up the steps. Laughing and shushing each other, they stumbled into the safety of Hermione's room, and the door shut behind them.

Panic returned. Overwhelmed and nervous, Severus watched with his heart in his mouth, as Hermione drew her wand and matter-of-factly enlarged the single bed. She locked and warded the door, and ensured that their sounds would not be heard by anyone else. There was no doubt about her intentions. Severus needed to get a grip.

The transfiguration of his dress robes into a suit had left the pockets intact. Severus palmed the potion he'd been carrying around since the previous week. "I made you something," he said, and his voice sounded rough.

Hermione glanced at him, curiosity tilting her head to one side and lifting up one corner of her mouth. She reached out, and he relinquished the small bottle into her hand. She examined it, holding the phial to the light and tipping it up to watch the deep purple liquid inside slide along the glass.

"What is it?" she asked. "I don't recognise the colour, although"—she shot him a glance—"I do believe that I have seen this potion once before."

Severus folded his lips around his teeth before he answered. "The colour changes depending on the recipient," he said.

A delighted grin pulled at her face. "You made me a contraceptive?" she asked.

He nodded.

"Twice?"

He nodded again.

"So . . ." She looked up at him under her lashes and leant the top half of her body towards him. "You were thinking about having sex with me back in February?"

He narrowed his eyes. "I was thinking about you having sex with Weasley," he corrected her.

"Sounds terrible," she teased, pressing her hands against his chest, pushing him back against the inside of the door. He could feel the cool glass of the bottle, trapped between them. "I love you, Severus Snape," she said, and the shock of her unexpected confession left him winded, gasping for air.

Hermione thumbed the cork from the bottle and drank down the potion. He watched the line of her neck, the jump of her throat as she swallowed, and he reached out and placed the palm of his hand over the hollow at the base of her throat. The ball of his thumb sat on her collar bone; his fingers on her neck. When she went to lower her chin he stopped her, pressing kisses along the underside of her jaw.

"Come to the bed," she whispered, her fingers tangled in his hair.

They moved across the short gap without separating. She turned his body, pushing him down so that he sat; then she stood between his legs and took advantage of the height advantage to plant kisses on his brows and nose. Severus stepped on the back of his shoes and kicked them under the bed as Hermione slipped his jacket off his shoulders and began an assault on the buttons of his shirt. When he let go of her long enough to pull his arms free of his clothing, she hiked up her skirt and climbed onto his lap.

Severus could feel the shimmery softness of her dress against the bare skin of his chest, the weight of her on his thighs. He gasped as she ran her hands over his back, her fingers pulling at his skin, learning the ridges of his spine, the curve of his ribs. He pulled her closer, fingers closing behind the fold of her knee, then sliding up her thigh, skidding over the silk of her stockings, snagging against lace, and then pausing on the warmth of her flesh. His whole body froze.

"What?" she asked into the stillness, her lips moving less than a breath from his.

"You're wearing suspenders?" he managed around the short-circuit of his brain.

Her face was so close to his that he could feel her smile. "Yeah," she said. "I thought you might like that."

Severus made an inarticulate noise. He lifted her enough that he could turn and lie her back on the bed. Up on his knees on the mattress he pushed up her skirts and allowed himself to run a hand from her thigh down to her ankle. Hermione lay propped on both elbows, watching him looking.

"Push your hair back," she said. "I want to see your face."

He did what he was told. He was shirtless—all skinny ribs and pale skin—and his pants were uncomfortably tight, but exposing his face still felt like the most radical move. He took a breath and met her eyes. Hermione was smiling—her brown eyes shone. He took in her hair, messed up, but still twisted and plaited up around her face; her incredible dress, and the lacy underwear she had on underneath.

"Hi," she said, and grinned at him.

"Hello." His voice came out deeper than he'd expected.

Hermione lifted a stocking foot and rubbed the ball of it on his thigh. "Why don't you come here and ravish me?" she asked.

For answer, Severus closed his fingers around her ankle and leaned forwards until his face was pressed against her hip, right where the silk of her underpants crossed over the strap of her suspenders. He drew his hands up the sweep of her leg and slipped two fingers under the fabric at her hips. He folded it back just far enough that he could kiss the same spot, but this time his lips met flesh. Hermione sighed and lifted her hips encouragingly. He took the hint and the opportunity she offered: pulling her pants down past the curve of her bum and pressing his face into the join where her leg met her body.

Severus took in a deep breath, inhaling her warmth and the briny, apricot chutney smell of her.

He wanted—

It took a few moments of awkward rearrangement: her wriggling, him lifting and pulling, till her underpants were off completely and he was back between her legs. As he gently opened her up with his fingers, wonder pushed at his chest and his throat. His kissed along the folds of her body, marvelling at the rasp of hair and the incredible, impossible softness at her heart. And he pushed his tongue into her creases, he felt her tense and release against his mouth; he savoured the salt and the sweat and the taste like almond skins that was hers alone. He opened his mouth against as much of her as he could, lapping and circling the protruding end of that long bundle of nerves they call the clitoris; he thought of how far those nerves ran deep inside her pelvis, and pushed up again and again against the small bit that stuck out into the world.

Hermione telegraphed her response in the cadence of her breath, the grip of her hand in his hair, the jog of her hips. Right at the end she sighed—a long, drawn out vowel, a groan at the close. He lifted his head to smile his triumph, and she gave a breathless laugh.

"Don't move," she said as he was rising. She grabbed him by the wrist and pulled his hand to cup between her legs. She pressed his fingers up into the slippery wetness of her, her eyes closed and head tilted back, she pushed her hips against him and he felt her muscles clench.

"Still?" he asked, the word spilling out without thought.

"Just," she said, "the aftershocks."

Severus held his breath for the next forty-five seconds as Hermione rocked her hips against his hand. The muscles deep inside her marked out the time in ever-increasing increments; then she was done. Her face relaxed, her eyes opened, and she smiled at him—the long, slow smile that he loved to receive.

"Kiss me."

"My face is a mess," he demurred.

"You've only yourself to blame," she replied, leaning in towards him regardless. He kissed her gently, and she sighed as they drew apart. "I think we're both wearing altogether too much clothing," she said. "Help me out of this dress?"

The dress undid down the back. Hermione wore no bra, and as she finally stepped clear, she watched his face from the corner of her eye. He wondered at the sheen of bravado.

"You are so beautiful," he said. Honesty robbed his tongue of any dissemblance.

She laughed. "Was it so obvious that I wanted you to say it?" she asked.

He reached out and brushed his fingers over her breast; he let them trail down over her ribs.

"I love you, Hermione Granger." The words came out without thought or censorship.

Her face was suddenly serious. "I know," she said. Then she smiled. "Now take your trousers off."

Severus stepped off the bed as she perched on the edge to roll off her stockings. He unbuttoned his trousers with some relief and let them drop to the floor. He hooked his thumbs in his shorts and as he lifted himself clear, standing entirely naked in front of her, he caught himself casting a remarkably similar glance at her up through his hair. She caught his eye and grinned. She was naked, too, and she scooted back up the bed.

"Come here," she said, beckoning with her near hand, "and put that rather impressive erection to good use."

Severus climbed onto the bed beside her and put his arms around her. His head swam with gratitude and desire.

The feel of her nakedness was indescribable. His skin touched hers at every point, and she was warm and soft and pliable.

Severus throbbed with desire.

Hermione reached down between them and wrapped her hand around him. His head dropped back and she pressed a kiss to the flesh of his throat. The insecure, unloved little boy in him wanted to ask if she was certain she wanted to keep going, but under the circumstances the question itself was laughable. Severus had never felt so wanted, never felt so safe in his life—even as he trembled on the edge, almost undone, painfully vulnerable in her hands.

Hermione rubbed him in the damp patch between her legs, then tilted her hips until he rested right there at the opening. Severus took his weight on his arms and moved his hips an inch or two closer to hers. The tip of him slipped inside; he could feel the infinite smoothness of her insides against the taught, swollen warmth of his own flesh.

He stopped, his face screwed up with effort.

"I've got you," she whispered. She didn't move.

Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, Severus slid in until his bones lay pressed against the cradle of her bones. He dared to open his eyes and look at her face. Her lower lip was caught between her teeth, but as his eyes met hers it popped free. Hermione's breathing was shallow and rapid. Her breasts rose and fell against his chest. She nodded at him, encouraging him onwards.

"Hermione," he breathed.

"Severus."

He started to move, as slowly as he could manage: this time he wanted to watch her face.

"Hermione," he said again. He pulled out and pushed back in, faster this time.

"Severus," she stuttered out.

The sound of his name on her lips, her flushed cheeks, the slippery tightness of her, her lowered lids; he wasn't going to last long. Her fingers pulled hard against the small of his back.

He kept saying her name so that she would keep saying his. He held out as long as he could, but sooner rather than later, he reached the point of no return.

"Hermione!" It was more of a shout this time, and her response even more a sound and even less a recognisable word. The edge rushed up at him, faster, higher, closer than he'd expected, and he tumbled down, crashing onto the rocks below. Severus came undone into her and against her. She moved with him, rocking him, holding him close. When they were done he lowered his head into the sweaty crook of her neck and swallowed back tears.

"Severus," she whispered into his hair, "oh, Severus. I've got you."

After a few minutes they pulled apart enough to roll on their sides and to focus on each other's faces. Severus brushed his fingertips over the near side of her face, skidding from her eyebrow to cheekbone to jaw.

"I love you," she said.

"I love you, too."

Hermione smiled. "In the morning," she said, "we can do it again."

Severus took in a shaky breath. As his chest expanded, his heart went with it: hope and possibility stretched out before him in the infinite, cuddled as close as the woman in his arms. She leant over him, groping on the nightstand until she'd recovered her wand, heedless of the way her breasts rubbed up against his bicep. Hermione cast cleansing charms on them both and pushed her wand away once again. Lifting his arm, she turned in his grip, wriggling herself back until their naked bodies were spooned tightly.

"Goodnight, Severus," she said.

"Goodnight, Hermione."

Severus lay there with a face full of hair and listened to her breathing deepen towards sleep. He could feel her heart beat against the palm of his hand; he could feel the swell of her lungs against the muscles of his arm. He filled himself up with the scent of hair, and he dared to believe in the coming of day.

* * *

><p>AN: This is pretty much the end, my friends. There is an epilogue to come, so look out for that in a week or so. Then we're done. Several people have asked what they are going to read now, so feel free to leave suggestions! I know I've mentioned it before, but I LOVE, LOVE, LOVE Kristin Cashore's books; I would never write a fanfic of any of them because they're pretty much perfect exactly the way they are. I also really like Megan Whalen Turner's Thief quartet—the first and last book are pretty good, the second and third are (in my humble opinion) OH MY GOD AMAZING. I also still love Ursula K. Le Guin's Earthsea series. Any other suggestions?

Oh yeah, and don't forget to let me know how this chapter went down. I've never written a sex scene before, so I'm feeling a bit nervous about putting this out there. If I failed horribly, you'd better let me know!


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